


i won't just buy you a rose

by glitterfreezing



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn, basically everyone is here, lots of flower symbolism, some minor hunk/shay and shiro/matt and nyma/allura happenings, well more like medium burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterfreezing/pseuds/glitterfreezing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance is a struggling florist with a passion for poetry and coffee. Keith is a highly frustrated barista at the bookstore-slash-café a few blocks away. Their inevitable meeting causes their individual worlds to change forever—for the worse, obviously. The course of true love never did run smooth, but this is just ridiculous.</p><p>title from <i>the gambler</i> by fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

It began—as things often do—with a phone call.

"Open Book, how can I help you?"

_"Is this Keith? Keith Kogane?"_

Keith held back a sigh of frustration as he recognized the voice. "Yeah, it’s me. Hi, Coran. What’s up?"

_"I’m sorting through the gifts for Allura and I can’t find any with your name on it. Did you ever give one to me?"_

"What gift?"

Coran spluttered unintelligibly into the receiver.

_"For Allura’s birthday party! I’ve been working on this all week!"_

"Oh."

 _"OH?"_ Coran had an impressive vocal range. Keith winced.

"No, I haven’t gotten her anything _yet_ ," he said. "But, uh, I promise I will."

 _"See that you do,"_ Coran snapped. _"After all, I need this to be special. It’s the first time Allura’s celebrating her birthday without her father, and I want to keep her spirits up. Got it?"_

"Okay. Bye." Keith hung up and banged his head against the nearest wall. Interacting with Allura’s batshit uncle was often an aggravating task, and his ridiculous accent—some strange brand of English? Australian? New Zealand?—was almost physically painful to have broadcasted at him at top volume. Coran was the co-owner of Open Book, though, so Keith couldn’t argue with him without the possibility of being fired arising.

"Hey," Hunk called teasingly from across the room. "There’s a book here in the Self-Help section about improving communication with others. You might need it, Keith."

"Oh, fuck off," Keith replied, but he was too exhausted to put any feeling into the words. He rifled through the drawers beneath the cash register until he found his nametag. Pinning it onto his jacket, he promptly made a beeline for the café at the back of the shop. He was working as barista this morning, and he’d take that over cashier any day.

Despite Keith’s distaste for most things—hot weather, overly cheerful people, country music, to name a few—his one true love was caffeine. Which was admittedly the primary reason he’d applied for a job at Open Book. He’d never been a reader, but Allura had offered, and Keith had been desperate. 

Still, he had to admit that the store was pleasant, all pale wood paneling and sunny skylights and shelves overflowing with every genre of book known to man. Fairy lights twisted among the rafters, and soft music piped through the cheap speakers Allura had placed at the paying counter. Slightly wilted plants stood in hand-painted pots around the room. The place had a well-loved air to it, and seemed to welcome its customers with open arms.

The café itself was tiny, consisting of a front and back counter, a pastry display case, a few chairs in varying shapes and sizes, and a low table with crossword puzzles scattered over it. Keith glanced over the seating area, eyes landing on the small girl perching cross-legged on a floral footstool.

"Hey, Pidge."

The girl grunted, her gaze fixed on the depths of an enormous latte. Keith was untroubled by her less than enthusiastic greeting; he’d been acquainted with Pidge Holt long enough now that he knew she wasn’t completely functional each day until she’d downed at least three cups of coffee.

Speaking of, he needed his own. Keith hurried behind the counter and, locating the nearest mug, filled it to the brim. He took his coffee black—not because he was trying to emulate the sheer edginess of the art students at the nearby college who frequented Open Book, but because he’d been raised on it by his bell-bottom-wearing, farmer's-market-frequenting aunt. Sometimes, he still heard her preaching the goodness of granola and raw cocoa beans at the back of his mind.

Keith took a swig. His eyes fluttered shut, and he breathed out softly. _Bliss._

"Wow," Hunk commented, pausing in the shop’s back doorway. "I’ve never seen a man more in love."

Keith frowned. "Just 'cause _you’re_ a tea freak—"

But Hunk only laughed good-naturedly. "Chill out, man. Shay’s just like you. Every morning, I’ve gotta bring her an espresso before she can even get out of bed!"

"Hunk, that’s sweet and all, but it’s too early in the a.m. for such explicit heterosexuality," Pidge called from her seat.

Hunk made a face. "Who’s heterosexual? Not me, that’s for sure."

Something in Keith’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, the way it always did when his friends talked—like _that._ His skin prickled with sweat. The surface of his coffee wavered in his trembling grip.

"Damn straight," Pidge hooted around her straw, shaking a fist in the air. Looped around her wrist were multitudes of rainbow-striped rubber bracelets from every Pride parade she’d been to. 

"Damn _bi,_ " Hunk corrected, snapping a single pink-purple-blue band against his own wrist. He did a joking two-finger salute and disappeared into the back alley, off to pick up new deliveries.

Keith took another sip, but his nerves wouldn’t quite settle. He grabbed his apron off the hook beside the pastry case, and slipped it on shakily. "Okay," he announced, walking over and slumping into the chair next to Pidge. "Ideas for Allura’s birthday present. Go."

Pidge blew bubbles in her latte—iced, since the air conditioning had broken down again and the store was so hot Hunk had declared earlier that his brain was melting out of his ears, which was _gross_ but also accurate. "I dunno," she said, setting her cup down. "Do what ya want. I already bought Allura nice jewelry, though, so that’s out."

Keith cocked an eyebrow over the rim of his mug. Pidge buried her face in her hands. "Shut up," she whined, the sound muffled. "It’s not like that."

"I didn’t say anything," Keith replied, fighting back both the urge to laugh and the returning twist in his gut. "It was _you_ who first insinuated—"

Pidge’s small fingers shot out and clamped over his mouth. Keith tried to pry her off, but she was surprisingly strong for a girl only slightly larger than a toy poodle. So he reacted the only way he could. He licked her palm. 

Pidge knocked over the footstool as she leapt back, screeching with disgust. Unfortunately for her, that was the moment Allura peeked out from behind the Mystery section. 

"Everything all right, Pidge?" Her beaming face, framed by platinum curls, lit up all of Open Book. Keith briefly wondered if Allura’s smile alone could power the planet. Probably.

Pidge wiped her palm on Keith’s jacket— _"Hey,"_ Keith growled—and faced Allura, her cheeks dusted red. "Uh, yeah, Allura! I’m great! How’s your morning going? Are you excited for your birth? _Fuck_ I meant day— _no_ —birth...day. Birthday. Yup." She fumbled with her comically oversized glasses as she spoke. Keith felt infinitely sorry for her.

Allura giggled. She had an incredible way of making you feel like you were the second most important person in the room. The first being her, of course—that part she couldn’t help. She was ethereal and brilliant and completely, utterly unattainable. Another wave of pity for Pidge washed over Keith.

"Of course I am! Coran’s been keeping all the planning very hush-hush, so I have no idea what’s happening. I’m sure it’ll be amazing, though." Allura clasped her hands together joyfully. "I hope I’ll see you there, Pidge! And you, Keith, of course."

She disappeared into the aisle again, but the two baristas could hear her quiet off-key humming.

"An angel among humans," Pidge sighed, picking her footstool back up and nearly swooning into it. Keith allowed her a few seconds before he snapped his fingers in front of her, jolting her out of her lovestruck trance. 

"Hello? I need to make this present special. After all, Allura did all that stuff for me a couple months ago, and—"

Pidge slurped at her latte. "Easy. Flowers. You can never go wrong with those. Make sure they’re good quality though."

Keith snorted. "Good quality? Yeah, right. The only florist in town is that Sendak guy. And he steals flowers from people’s gardens and resells them as his own."

"Did someone say flowers?" Hunk called, shuffling back inside with a stack of graphic novels balanced precariously in his arms. He poked his head out from behind them. "Hey, Pidge, can you switch shifts with me? I have a date tonight with Shay. Also, are you _vibrating?"_

"For sure. Only a little bit—I need at least two more lattes before I actually start twitching." 

"Why," Keith groaned, exasperated, "would you do that to yourself?"

"Helps me work faster. You should try, but make sure you don’t overdo it. I’ve been to the hospital before after one too many frappuccinos. Anyway, Hunk, Keith needs to buy flowers for Allura’s—" Pidge lowered her voice, glancing around nervously, "birthday party. He wants nice ones. Any ideas?"

Hunk placed the novels atop the pastry case. "You bet I do! It’s a funny coincidence, actually. My buddy from uni just moved into that ancient movie rental store a couple blocks away. I went over there yesterday to help him finish setting up. His flowers are _gorgeous_ , man, it’s wild. I swear I was tearing up a little just looking at ‘em."

"Sounds great, thanks." Keith finished the last of his coffee and stood up, digging through his wallet for spare cash. "What’s it called? And who’s your friend?"

"The shop’s called In Bloom. It’s painted turquoise—can’t miss it." Hunk grinned. "I think you guys’ll get along great. And his name’s Lance. Lance McClain-Santana."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i love keith but idk how to write him so. this is an Experiment  
> by the way, pidge's crush on allura is **not** reciprocated. i know we all want some lesbians but i'm iffy on their age difference.  
>  also i love keith's weird hippie aunt. her name's kaori and she's gay. someone draw her pls


	2. so sudden and new

There was a time in your life, Keith reflected, when you knew you were completely, utterly fucked. For him, _this_ was it.

He kicked off his blankets and stared numbly at the ceiling, watching the fan spin in hypnotic circles above him. It was a blistering-hot night, one of the worst in years, but it wasn’t the heat that was keeping Keith awake.

It was all supposed to be so _easy._ Go in, ask for roses, pay, leave. That’s all there was to it.

He’d had no idea what was coming.

____________________________________

It all started out fine, okay. He’d left Open Book just after Hunk told him Lance’s name, promising Allura he’d be back in time for his shift. Along the way, he’d stopped at Shay’s bakery a few storefronts down to exchange pleasantries. Shay was covered head to toe in flour and melted chocolate, and the lineup for fresh scones stretched out onto the sidewalk, but she always spared time for friends. It was in her nature; Keith had never met anyone else so determined to be as kind as possible to everyone who crossed her path. 

She’d given him a free croissant, but he’d been robbed of it on the way out the door by some of the hungrier patrons. Frustrated but relatively unsurprised, Keith continued down Main Street, eyelids half-shut against the sickly mid-July wind. 

Further down and across the road, in the parking lot of Shirogane Mechanics, Shiro himself stood, waving at Keith. With his muscled frame, steely eyes, and mysterious prosthetic arm, Shiro seemed like a terrifying force. But Keith had learned in the few months of living here that the man was just as kindhearted as Shay. Nyma, who was a couple years older than Keith but had been in some of his college classes, was crouched at Shiro’s side, newly jade-green cornrows rustling in the breeze. Pausing her search through a rusted toolbox, she’d raised her hand in greeting too. 

Keith waved back as he crossed to the last block, then came to a tentative halt outside In Bloom. 

He had to admit that the storefront was pretty, all soft turquoise paint and worn edges. The two front windows were tall and wide, flung open to combat the summer heat, and cheerful flowers peeked out from the sill inside. A wooden sign hung above the open doorway; the shop’s name was scribbled on it in hasty blue lettering, and beside it was a painting of a tulip. Delicate wire tables and colourful steel buckets filled with pre-wrapped bouquets stood near the front step. 

Keith peered inside, but he couldn’t see much from where he stood. Cautiously, he entered, floorboards creaking under his feet. His eyes took a second to adjust to the softer light, and when his vision cleared, Keith momentarily forgot how to breathe.

Hunk had been right. 

Everywhere he turned, he was dazzled. Flowers of every size imaginable burst towards him, drowning the room in vibrant reds and oranges, sunny yellows, gentle pinks, mournful blues and purples. And so much _green_ —lush vines and leaves and ferns seemed to be growing every which way until the only thing they hadn’t overtaken was the ancient hardwood floor. Shelves harbouring smaller plants lined the walls, which were painted to match the storefront, and a long table laden with dozens of elegant displays took up the middle of the store. Nailed into the walls here and there were wooden plaques covered with the same imprecise script as the sign outside. Keith couldn’t make out what they said—but there was no time to stop and read them.

“Uh, hello,” he addressed the miniature jungle before him. “I’m looking for—”

 _Shit._ He hadn’t decided on what kind. 

“I need roses,” he blurted. “Do you, um, have any here?” 

“You bet I do,” came a voice from seemingly nowhere. “Roses, classic. Buying ‘em for someone special?”

Keith whirled around, scanning his surroundings, but there was no sign of the person who’d spoken.

“Back here,” the voice said, laughter bubbling behind the words. 

Keith navigated through the overgrown plants to the far side of the shop until he came across a wooden counter tucked away beside an enormous spray of lilies. A silver and blue bead curtain hung on the back wall, concealing another doorway behind it. Someone—Lance, he guessed—was standing beside the curtain, facing away from Keith as they examined a wire rack hanging on the same wall. The rack was cluttered with tiny cacti in messily sculpted pots, and Keith watched as Maybe-Lance reached out for one that had fallen over, restoring it to an upright position. 

“Ah,” Keith said eventually, remembering why he was there. “Hi.”

Maybe-Lance turned around.

The world collapsed around Keith and built itself back up again. 

He was broad-shouldered and tanned and his eyes were dark blue—so dark they glittered black. His hair was deep brown, buzzed into a feathery, unstyled undercut and dyed a fading teal on top. Under a dirt-smeared florist’s apron he wore a white tank top and jeans that clung to his thin legs. Rings adorned his fingers and ears, and fixed to one apron strap was a nametag confirming that he was indeed Lance.

 _Christ,_ Keith thought. Hunk might have waxed poetic about Lance’s flowers, but hadn’t mentioned that Lance himself was—was _beautiful._

In Keith’s memory, the two of them stared at each other as if time had stopped everywhere except for inside that sunlit flower shop.

In reality, Lance replied “Hey,” and smiled politely and Keith saw his lips move but forgot to answer until Lance cleared his throat.

“Hi,” Keith said, again glancing down at his beat-up sneakers in embarrassment. “I. Um. Roses.”

“Oh, yeah. Everyone wants those. What color?” 

Keith was so distracted by the barest hint of an accent—just prominent enough to soften out certain words and roll “r”s ever so slightly—that he instantly forgot every color that had ever existed. Then he remembered Lance’s eyes. “Blue,” he said, looking back up.

A smile tugged at the corner of Lance’s mouth. “Blue,” he repeated slowly.

Keith nodded, feeling vaguely aware that he’d said the wrong thing.

Lance grinned in earnest. “You don’t know much about flowers, do you? There’s no such thing, except for dyed ones, and this store is all-natural—” 

“I meant red,” Keith interrupted. “Red roses, please.” His cheeks burned.

Humming, Lance leaned over the counter on his elbows. “Ooh, romantic. Girlfriend?” Keith took an instinctive step back, shaking his head frantically. _If he and Allura started dating_ —the image of a furious, heartbroken Pidge flashed into his mind. 

“Boyfriend?”

“No!” Keith exclaimed, so suddenly that Lance jumped a little. “It’s for my boss. For her birthday. I want to thank her for everything she’s done for me.”

Lance scoffed. “You don’t wanna get her _red roses_ then, man! Honestly. Give her something _meaningful._ Here—” he paused and ducked beneath the counter, clutching a printed sheet as he came back up. “This’ll tell you the meaning of all the flowers in here So, if you want to show gratitude, you could give her chrysanthemums, which mean ‘wonderful friend’ or ‘support.’ And irises, which can mean ‘my compliments.’ You could throw in some lavender heather, too.”

Keith cast his gaze around the store, finally settling on a bunch of pretty white blossoms on a cart propped against the wall behind Lance. “What about those? They’re nice.”

“Oh.” Lance leaned over and picked them up, brushing his thumb over one of the wide petals. “These are camellia blossoms. Every colour of camellia has a different meaning. These ones are white, which usually means purity. But since these are specifically for a funeral, they stand for mourning.” His expression was bright with interest. “If they’re pink, that means longing or desire, and combining them with red—passion—symbolizes romantic love for someone.” 

Keith reached out to touch the petals as well, but Lance pulled the bouquet away. 

“Don’t touch these,” Lance said, quietly but firmly. “Please. They’re for an important occasion. I take my work seriously.” 

“Sorry,” Keith replied, guilt making a hard knot in his chest. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine.” Lance waved away his apology and put the camellias back. “You’re good. Anyway, how’d you find out about this place?”

“My friend Hunk sent me. He said you guys were—”

“Hunk sent you? _Hunk Iwalani?_ Then you must be the guy he told me about! You work at Open Book, too!” Lance beamed. “Keith, yeah? Awesome to meet you.” He stuck out his hand. Keith took it hesitantly, noting the warmth of Lance’s elegant brown fingers—nails dirty, slim silver rings pressing into Keith’s palm. A small voice at the back of his mind said _Don’t let go,_ and he didn’t.

“Uh,” Lance breathed after a held moment, glancing nervously from their joined hands to Keith’s face. “So. Your flowers.”

Keith let go like Lance had burned him. “Right. Okay. I’ll take a medium? Medium bouquet? Is that a thing? Of whatever you said. It sounded good.” He prayed he had enough to cover it. “How much?”

Lance frowned, seemingly doing the math in his head. “Uh, about thirty-five dollars,” he began, and Keith’s heart sank. 

_“But,”_ Lance added, flashing him a wink, “‘cause you’re Hunk’s friend, I’ll give you a discount. How’s twenty sound?”

Keith gaped. “You’re kidding.”

Lance spread his arms wide and grinned. “Hey, man, I don’t kid.” 

“No—what? Why’re you helping me like this? Don’t you need money?”

Lance pointed at Keith’s thin wallet, and said in a strange, nearly sympathetic tone, “Well, it looked like you could use a little...financial assistance, yourself.”

The spreading glow of relief that had blossomed inside Keith vanished in a cold instant, like rainclouds smothering the sun. His mouth twisted into a grimace. _How fucking dare this kid? Who did he think he was?_

“I _don’t,_ thanks,” he spat, readying himself to storm out of the shop. Keith’s greatest flaw was his pride—his ever-present need to be respected. To be considered an equal. To be perfect. It followed him, whispered in his ear, gripped onto his heart every time he thought about letting someone in and dragged him back to reality.

He had learned a long time ago that pride was what kept you going.

Face falling, Lance leaned further over the counter, his eyes pleading as he stumbled over his explanation. “No, man, I didn’t mean it like that! I know how it feels, believe me, I used to be—!”

“I don’t think so.” Keith pulled every remaining bill out of his wallet and tossed all of thirty-five dollars on the counter. “And I don’t like charity. Can I get the flowers delivered by tomorrow?”

Lance just nodded, looking shocked, then whispered, “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” Keith snarled, making it clear he didn’t mean that. “Don’t count on me becoming a regular.” He turned on his heel and headed away, forcing himself not to look back at Lance. As he neared the entrance, he knocked over a tub of yellow roses. One was crushed beneath his foot. He ignored it and slammed the door behind him, rattling the painted sign out front. This was childish, and he knew he was overreacting, but Lance had gotten under his skin like nothing else had for ages.

He paused on the sidewalk outside and checked his watch. Ten minutes to his shift back at the bookstore. Keith ran a hand through his hair, cursing Lance’s false sympathy and Lance’s arrogance and Lance’s quiet, genuine _sorry,_ but mostly his own stupidity.

He couldn’t go back inside and apologize—again, he couldn’t shake his fucking pride.

With a last, half-guilty, half-scornful glance at In Bloom, Keith left, hoping that he would never have to see Lance again.

____________________________________

Now, hours later, Keith was deeply regretting every choice he’d made that day.

Streetlights danced over the floor of his room, slinking in through half-closed blinds. The silence of the night was deafening.

 _I really am fucked,_ Keith thought. _What am I gonna tell Hunk? And Coran? What if Lance doesn’t deliver Allura’s flowers because I ruined everything?_

_God damn it._

He worried and sweated and watched the fan spin until finally, as two a.m. slid into three, his eyelids grew heavy. Keith gladly allowed them to close. 

His breathing slowed, and he fell into that hazy-warm state just moments before sleep, feeling boneless and exhausted and calm for the first time since he’d walked into that _fucking_ flower shop.

Still, he couldn’t quite forget how Lance’s hand had felt in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**lavender heather:** admiration._  
>  _ **yellow rose:** joy, friendship._  
>     
> YES the chapter title is from _what is this feeling_ from wicked because i do what i Want
> 
> 1) lance is very beautiful but there r literally no fics describing him as such :( so i wanted to emphasize that  
> 2) also guys keith is a greasy gross boy. i love him but let's be real here probably washes his hair like twice a month pls stop kidding urselves  
> 3) don't hesitate to let me know of any spelling/grammar errors, this is un-betaed! also...i live 4 feedback pls tell me how i'm doing!


	3. stay up to see the dawn

“Go.”

Keith scowled and slumped over the counter, tucking his head into his elbow. “No.”

A small but pointy finger jabbed at his side. _“Yes.”_

_“No.”_

“Dude,” Hunk said into his ear. “You should. We have to thank him somehow.”

Keith slid down onto the floor, flopping into a position akin to a beached whale. “I can’t,” he grumbled, twisting his head just enough to look up at his terrible, awful friends who wanted to ruin his life. “I’m dead.”

“Okay, sure, edge lord,” Pidge snapped from somewhere above him. “Here. Drink your boring-ass garbage or I’ll pour it on your head. Then—” She leaned down and knocked his lukewarm mug of coffee against his skull. 

Keith gave her the finger, but he figured the impact was lowered due to the fact he was lying facedown among syrup stains, definitely looking like an idiot. He groaned loudly in an attempt to get his point across.

“Get up and go invite the flower boy. Don’t be a wuss,” Pidge continued, unperturbed. 

Hunk crouched beside Keith and ruffled his hair in a way that was somehow not patronizing or weird. Keith liked that about Hunk; he was warm but not overbearing, gentle but not passive. He was a soothing pat on the back and a teasing smile. A calming presence. Except for when he tried to crush Keith’s spirit by forcing him to interact with an enemy, which was what he was currently doing.

“Keith, I know you said you hate him, but you spent only half an hour in that shop,” Hunk said. “Maybe if you guys hung out for longer, you’d get along.”

“Doubt it.”

Pidge clicked her tongue. “Look. He delivered the flowers, and they’re beautiful, and you’re gonna make Allura and Coran happy. ” She pointed to Keith’s backpack, hanging on the hook beside the pastry case; it wasn’t fully closed due to Keith not wanting to crush the bouquet. A corner of pink wrapping paper poked out. “Why not give Lance a little credit?”

“Because,” Keith told her, poking aimlessly at the scattered coffee grinds that had fallen between the floorboards, “he sucks. And he pretended to feel bad for me ‘cause I’m poor. And he has a stupid haircut.”

Hunk and Pidge sighed in unison. Keith flipped onto his back and glared at them.

“All right,” Pidge began, adjusting her glasses, “your first reason isn’t good enough.”

“Neither is your last one,” Hunk chimed.

“And I think Lance had good intentions—”

“He’s been there, too, Keith, we all have—”

“Frankly, _your_ hair is equally stupid. It’s greasy as fuck and a literal mullet—”

“He used to work three jobs during uni to pay for—”

“Not to mention your terrible fashion sense. I’m cringing just _looking_ at that jacket.”

“First impressions aren’t always the best, but I think he’s really trying.”

“Anyway, the party’s gonna be fun and he deserves to have fun. Hunk said he barely knows anyone in this town— ”

“And I think it’d be a really great opportunity for you guys to make up, the two of you have a lot in common—” 

“Also I’d just like to point out that you’re pretty broken up about this whole thing. Seems to me like you _want_ to be his friend,” Pidge concluded. Hunk bobbed his head in agreement.

“Gross,” Keith replied.

“Come on,” Pidge whined, prodding his cheek with her sandal. “Lance probably loves you. He wants to make friendship bracelets and write lame poems and hold hands platonically and have platonic babies with you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Please,” Hunk said quietly, followed by quiet sniffling and an all-too-familiar sound of a muffled sob. 

Keith could handle a lot, but what he couldn’t stand was crying. He knew those were one-hundred-percent crocodile tears, but he launched himself to his feet anyway, shaking dust and sugar granules off his clothes. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll go, but only ‘cause you guys are fucking annoying. But,” he added, stamping his foot for emphasis, “if he doesn’t accept the invite, I’ll kill both of you.”

“So Hunk just has to get all misty-eyed,” Pidge said resentfully, “and you’ll do whatever he says?”

“Yeah,” Keith said. “Sorry, Pidge, but you can’t convince people of anything to save your life.” He fist-bumped Hunk, discarded his apron, and headed out from behind the counter.

Hunk beamed. “Thanks, man!” He stage-whispered, “Told ya it would work,” into a fuming Pidge’s ear.

Keith paused in the doorway separating the coffee shop from the main store and shot her a sarcastic grin. “Love you.”

Tuning out Pidge’s indignant squawking, he made his way to the front of Open Book, stopping in the Science Fiction aisle to kill time. He rearranged a shelf filled with copies of those hitchhiker books Hunk liked, smiled awkwardly at an elderly woman browsing, and pretended to look busy until the guilt—which had been eating at him since he left In Bloom the day before—pushed him over to the front door.

Allura was leaning on the cash register with one elbow, arguing as quietly as she could on the store’s phone. Her hair fell in sweaty ringlets around her cheeks, and a smudge of fresh platinum dye stained the back of her neck. She looked absolutely miserable. Keith watched her whisper-shout into the receiver, brow furrowed with frustration, and felt, then, as if he owed her the world—flowers weren’t enough for someone like Allura. 

But maybe showing her how far he’d come was. 

_You should make friends,_ she’d told him one rain-soaked day. They were sitting on the couch in her apartment; Keith’s sneakers smearing mud over pristine carpeting, her gentle fingers careful against his shoulder. She was crossing her ankles nervously, eyes solemn as she watched him press a washcloth to his bleeding mouth. _Acting like this, Keith—it won’t do you any good. Lashing out whenever you feel like it—_

“Isn’t the answer,” Keith breathed, absentmindedly repeating her words.

“No thank you,” Allura snapped at a louder volume, making Keith jump. She hung up, and grimaced in apology as she turned around. “Sorry,” she said. “So many customers from hell today.” Frowning, she added, “Where are you going? Your shift doesn’t end till one. It’s only—” she glanced at her watch, “twelve-thirty.”

“I,” Keith replied, fumbling for an answer. “Uh.”

One of Allura’s eyebrows rose slowly into the curl of her bangs. “Yes?”

“I’m...I have to go. To, um, Shiro’s. My bike broke down yesterday, and Nyma just texted me saying she fixed it.” Keith smiled uncomfortably up at her, sticking his hands in his pockets and shrugging as if to say _What can you do, y’know?_ He prayed inwardly that she believed him.

“Your bike is parked out back,” Allura replied. “I saw it when I came in.”

 _Fuck._ Keith bit his lip and held Allura’s gaze, silently pleading. 

“Oh,” Allura gasped, realization dawning on her. Face lighting up, she nodded emphatically. “Yes, yes, go ahead, Keith! I won’t stand in the way of your love!”

_“What.”_

But Allura was already waving him away, giggling to herself. Keith caught a muttered _they grow up so fast_ somewhere in there, as if she wasn’t only four years older than him. He was about to question her further about the weird exclamation—did she think he had a _girlfriend?_ —but if he didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t have the courage to later. Instead, he cracked a half-smile, waved back, and bolted out of the shop.

_____________________________________

When Keith stopped in front of In Bloom, he almost turned back. 

Out front, displays filled the wire shelves; white larkspur today, Keith noticed. Each bouquet was accented with smaller pink flowers that he learned from a nearby chalkboard sign were sweet pea blossoms. A banner hung over the open windows, blue lettering now easily recognizable. _Earth laughs in flowers,_ it read. The “o” in flowers was stylized like a daisy, and delicate green vines of paint curled around the words. 

Nerves shook Keith down to the bone—heart flinging itself against his ribcage, shaking as he reached out for the door handle. 

_Go in,_ said a little voice in his mind that sounded like Hunk. 

He did, guilt swallowing him whole.

For some reason, Keith had expected all hell to rain down on him as soon as he entered, but nothing happened. The flowers were still as vibrant as ever, the room was still crowded with all manner of plants, and no screeching demonic apparition of Lance appeared in front of him. _So far, so good._ Feeling slightly less worried, Keith wandered through the store, taking his time to examine it in detail. He stroked the leaves of a small bush trimmed into an oval shape, crouched to stare at a ceramic water fountain decorated with growths of moss and wildflowers, then took a closer look at the wooden plaques on the wall. One read:

 _Perhaps the roses really want to grow,_  
_The vision seriously intends to stay;_  
_If I could tell you I would let you know._  
_—WH Auden_

Keith brushed his fingers over the faded, cracking paint. Lance must have made them a long time ago. He glanced over at the next plaque, but had only begun to read it when he was startled by a burst of laughter coming from the back of the store. Remembering why he was there, he shuffled over reluctantly.

When he reached the massive lily display, he peeked out from behind them. A freckled boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen was standing at the register, blushing furiously as Lance handed him a small bouquet—orchids and tendrils of jasmine and yellow tulips. 

“That’ll be ten bucks,” Lance told the boy cheerfully. “Don’t worry about not getting roses. She’ll still love these—and love ‘em twice as well when you tell her the meaning.”

The boy nodded, still blushing, and placed a couple bills on the counter. “Thanks, man,” he stammered out, and hurried away smiling. 

“Come again soon,” Lance called after him. “Tell me how your date went!” He laughed again, and was about to head through the bead curtain when he stopped, gaze locking onto the lilies. He craned his neck as he tried to look through the heavy petals. “Hello?”

Keith walked out from behind the display. “Hi.”

Lance stared at him for a split second, then shook his head and said, “No.” He turned away and began organizing a pile of bouquets on the rack behind him.

Stunned, Keith made a couple attempts to reply, but all his efforts were futile. He fell silent and stared at the floor instead.

 _Say something,_ another voice told him, this time Pidge’s.

“Uh, I wanted to thank you. For the flowers.”

Lance paused in his sorting, shoulders tensing up. He turned his head slightly. Encouraged by his attention, Keith continued hurriedly, occasionally stumbling over the words.

“They’re, um, beautiful. Honestly. And Hunk and my other friend—Pidge Holt, you might know her, I guess—suggested that I invite you. To my boss’s birthday party tomorrow night. That’s why I needed the flowers. So…” Keith stepped up to the counter tentatively. “Do you want to come?”

He wondered if he was imagining the upward curve of Lance’s mouth.

“It’ll be fun. You know, a couple speeches, food, alcohol, dancing. You don’t have to go—I get it, I’ve been a real dick to you. But—” 

“Okay.”

“Huh?”

Lance faced him. His hair was pulled back in a feathery ponytail, its turquoise color even more faded than it had been yesterday. The rings on his ears were gone, replaced with small bronze studs shaped like roses. “I said okay.”

A spark of joy ran down Keith’s spine. “Seriously?”

“Only if you apologize, though. Also you have to buy me a drink sometime.” Lance still didn’t seem overly happy with him, but it was a start. “And I’m not doing it _just_ for you. I’m doing it for Hunk, too. And I wanna meet your boss, because I’ve seen her around town and she’s, like, _wow.”_

“Thanks, man,” Keith breathed, relieved. “Oh—I’m really sorry about yesterday. It’s just that, uh, money is a touchy subject for me.”

“Well, shit, me too,” Lance retorted, prodding at a smudge of dirt on the countertop. “I’ve been working for almost a decade now. I got to university on student loans. I send all the money I make to my family, and I barely—” he stopped, chewing his bottom lip. “Sorry. You didn’t need to hear all that.”

“It’s fine.”

The two of them avoided eye contact for a moment.

“So—”

“Um—”

“Where’s the party?” Lance ripped a page off a stack of Post-Its sitting next to the cash register and pulled out a pen from his apron pocket. Thankful that the conversation topic had changed, Keith jumped to answer.

“It’s down on Garrison Street. You know that convention centre on the corner farthest from Main Street? It’s in the ballroom, and it’ll start at around six.”

“Cool.” Lance scribbled it down, then looked back up at Keith, expression shy but undoubtedly pleased. “See you there.”

Keith nodded and let himself smile. “You too.”

He began backing towards the entrance, bumping into a display of gardenias along the way. “Sorry,” he exclaimed, crouching and picking up a couple blossoms that had fallen onto the floor. Lance giggled helplessly at that, and hope bloomed in Keith’s chest. Allura _would_ be proud of him.

He replaced the gardenias and left the shop with Lance’s laugh replaying in his head.

_____________________________________

The next evening, Keith stood just inside the doors of the Garrison Street Convention Center, sweating heavily in his rented suit. He’d pulled his hair even higher off his neck than usual, but it was still hot as hell in the crowded hallway; nearly everyone in the town knew and loved Allura, and they’d all decided to pay her a visit.

Nyma and Shiro had arrived first; Nyma nervously plucking at the hem of her dress and Shiro bubbling over with delight in a pricey-looking tuxedo. He and Allura were childhood friends, and he’d called her earlier to wish her happy birthday on the verge of tears. The other mechanics soon trailed in after them, as did Pidge and her older brother Matt. Pidge, who wore a lime green suit that somehow worked on her, stuck her tongue out at him as she passed. “You’re the doorman ‘cause you gave Coran your gift last,” she teased. Then came the cashiers and waitresses, shopkeepers and baristas, bearing so many gifts Keith lost count.

Hunk and Shay swept in looking like the couple of the year; Shay in long, colorful skirts, Hunk in a classic suit with a tie the same shade of pink as Shay’s hijab. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other. Keith had to admit it was pretty cute. The cashier at Shay’s bakery—Rolo, Keith guessed, Shay’s brother Rax, and her grandmother followed them in, and an enormous group of Allura’s relatives brought up the rear, chatting excitedly in a mishmash of languages and accents. The Alteas were from _everywhere,_ apparently—some had flown in from England, some from the south of France, some from Nigeria and Italy and the Philippines and who knew where else—and nearly every one of them had arrived. 

Lance still hadn’t shown up. 

Keith went outside to pace the sidewalk. 

_I really am an idiot,_ he thought, kicking at a few stray pieces of gravel. _Why did I ever believe him?_ He scanned the road both ways a couple times, then checked his watch. Six-thirty. Sighing in defeat, he headed towards the entrance.

“Wait!”

Keith paused halfway through the door. Footsteps clattered towards him, echoing in the street. He looked back.

Lance was racing down the block, hair spilling out of its ponytail. He waved frantically at Keith, panic clear on his face. “Sorry,” he yelped as he skidded to a halt in front of the center. “I forgot to lock up the shop and had to run back.” 

“That’s fine,” Keith told him, glad to see Lance for the first time since they'd met. “Don’t worry about it.” He awkwardly patted Lance on the back. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Lance managed. He bent at the waist, shoulders heaving as he panted. “Fuck, I’m so out of shape.”

Keith held the door open for him to stumble through. “C’mon. Dinner’s starting soon.”

The party was a great success. Coran really did have planned it down to the most insignificant detail. Allura, who looked even more goddess-like than usual, was beside herself with joy, smiling so much her cheeks must have been killing her. The caterers served some of the best food Keith had tasted in a long time—the kitchen in his apartment was mostly filled with boxed mac ‘n’ cheese and instant ramen—and he kept glancing over at Lance, who had made a beeline for Pidge, Matt, Shiro, Hunk and Shay’s table as soon as they entered, and, not even a minute later, began wildly gesturing as he recounted him and Keith’s first meeting, much to the others’ amusement.

 _Was Lance lonely most of the time?_ A strange sensation of fondness and pity bloomed in Keith’s chest.

During dessert, Coran got up on the stage at the front of the room and started reciting a lengthy speech detailing what must have been every moment of Allura’s life. Keith picked at the remaining crumbs of blueberry pie on his plate, zoning out somewhere in the middle of an anecdote about fourteen-year-old Allura’s brief scene phase. However, he snapped out of it pretty quickly when Coran suddenly began bawling into the microphone. Allura leapt out of her seat immediately and flew into his arms, reassuring him through her own tears. 

After Coran had been calmed down and the two of them returned to their seats, a great-aunt made a few comments about how strong Allura had been even after losing both her parents. An uncharacteristically shy Nyma stammered through a speech—everyone at Shirogane Mechanics had collaborated on it—and ended with a hurried “You’re very pretty and I’d like to get to know you better!” Allura’s youngest cousin read a poem she’d written herself. Pidge and Hunk performed a skit that didn’t make much sense to Keith, but had Allura laughing until she cried. There were declarations of love, and bouts of applause, and off-key musical numbers—thanks, Rolo—and quiet sobs and uproarious laughter. 

Finally, Shiro got up, a glass of champagne in his hand, eyes shining with pride. The room fell silent as everyone’s attention turned to him. Shiro was normally soft-spoken, but his words rang clearly across the ballroom that night.

“First of all, I’d like to thank Coran, who made this possible. We’ve all suffered your nagging phone calls, and we love you still.”

Coran scoffed good-naturedly.

“And now, I want to make a toast. To my partner in crime and voice of reason. To my teacher, my supporter, my hero, my best friend—here’s to you, Allura.” 

“To Allura,” Keith chorused with the other guests. He picked up his champagne and drank.

And then Allura stepped gracefully onto the stage. Her makeup was smudged from tears and sweat, but she still glowed, impossibly beautiful.

“Thank you, everyone,” she began, wiping at her eyes.”I—wow. That was amazing. Coran, family, friends, everybody, thank you so much. I hardly know what to say.”

“I love you, Allura!”

“Who said that?” She peered into the gathering of tables around her. “Well, I love you too, whoever it was! I’m so glad you could make it here, and I figured—” she paused, a smirk creeping across her face, “that I ought to give you something in return! Do all of you old people still like to dance?” 

There was a burst of enthusiastic clapping.

“Well, then, help me move these tables and chairs off to the side! We,” Allura exclaimed, flinging her arms into the air, “are going to dance the night away!”

Everyone erupted into cheers, and as if on cue, an upbeat pop song began blaring over the speakers. Coran, who’d sneaked out of his seat a few moments earlier, turned off the overhead chandeliers that had previously illuminated the room and plunged it into flashing multicolored lights. 

Keith helped Hunk and Shay push their table into a corner. Pidge had slipped away to talk to a girl who worked at the grocer’s—“I know her from _college,”_ she’d snapped at Keith, blushing furiously. “Her name’s Ava. And yes, she’s cute, but that’s not the point, nerd.”—and Shiro was listening to Matt ramble about physics with a sweet smile on his lips, so they weren’t much help, and Lance was—where was he?

“Yeah, I run my own business,” came a familiar voice from behind him. Keith turned to see Lance leaning ever-so-casually against the wall, talking to Allura, whose expression was morphing from “polite interest” to “twitchy annoyance.” 

Keith hurried over, intent on interrupting Lance’s bragfest. “Hi, Allura, happy birthday again. This is—”

“Lance McClain-Santana,” Lance drawled, extending a hand. “But you can call me the man of your—” 

“He’s where I went to get your flowers,” Keith explained.

“They’re lovely, thank you. And—oh my god,” Allura exclaimed, slapping her hands over your mouth. “So _that’s_ where you went today! Is he your—your boyfriend?”

Keith nearly choked on his own spit, and by the look on Lance’s face, he did too.

“No,” Keith croaked out. “Just, uh, my friend! My friend. Yeah.”

“Well,” Allura hummed, smiling a touch more warmly at Lance than she had before. “That’s still amazing! I’m very proud of you, Keith.” Then she swept off, calling from over her shoulder, “I’ve got to go talk to Nyma! See if she still, ah, wants to get to _know_ me better!”

Lance watched her leave. “Oh,” he said quietly, realization hitting him. “That was dumb of me.”

“Yeah, I guess, um, I should’ve told you before you started flirting with her.”

“S'okay,” Lance replied, bobbing his head to the music. They stood in uncomfortable silence, scanning the crowded dance floor until Pidge waltzed up to them.

“Hey,” she said, glasses askew. “I just got Ava’s number _and_ I’m already drunk. Allura, the true queen of the gays, has blessed me on this day.”

“Nice,” Keith deadpanned, ruffling her caramel curls. If Pidge had been sober, she would've gnawed his hand off. But she just nodded happily, waved at Lance, and disappeared back into the fray of bodies and light.

“What a woman,” Lance declared after she’d left. “I love her already.”

Keith scoffed. “Yeah? Wait and see. Once she’s comfortable around you, she turns into a fucking gremlin. Every time she comes over, she steals all my food and makes me watch The Office even though Parks and Rec is clearly superior.”

“First of all,” Lance said, grinning, “that’s definitely something I would do—although Brooklyn Nine-Nine is the real winner. I think we’d get along fine. Second, do you want another drink?”

“I’m good. Um,” Keith answered, extending his hand. “Do you—uh—want to go? Dance, I mean.”

Electric blue light flashed over Lance’s surprised expression. He looked down at Keith’s tentative open palm, then locked eyes with him again, teeth set nervously against his bottom lip.

“You don’t have to,” Keith blurted. He withdrew his hand and curled it into a fist. “Don’t wanna make this weird or anything.”

“Sure,” Lance said after a beat. “Why not?” He touched Keith’s elbow. “Come on.”

That was all it took to convince Keith. He shrugged out of his jacket, and, following Lance’s lead, stepped into the bouncing crowd.

“I have to tell you something,” he called to Lance, who’d already begun to move. “I’ve never danced before.”

Lance was stunned. _“Never?”_ He did something with his hips that made Keith’s throat dry up. 

“Yeah. Like, how do you do that?” Keith tried to imitate the hip thing.

“You Americans,” Lance laughed. “So inexperienced. Here—” and then he was close, too close, his fingers burning through Keith’s shirt as they skimmed over his waist. “Gotta feel it in here. Roll them. Just go for it, it’s fun.” 

Keith did. Lance hummed. “Much better.”

So the night carried on, with Lance coaching Keith through some basic steps, and then taking a break to do shots, laughing and whistling as Hunk and Shay slow-danced past. And then a drunken attempt at tangoing to Run Away With Me; Lance imitated the horn sounds and Keith laughed so hard he fell over. And then they wandered the halls of the centre, peering into every room, and there was an incident with the gym pool where Keith may or may not have pushed Lance in, and then a long walk through the gardens out back for Lance to dry off and a treacherous climb from the gardens up through the ballroom windows and another round of dancing until most of the guests had left. 

When Keith’s feet nearly gave out beneath him, he and Lance went over to the stage and collapsed into a heap on it. He scanned the room through tired eyes; Allura and Nyma were holding hands at a table nearby, both of them looking embarrassed but happy. Pidge was reading Ava’s number aloud over and over, spinning slowly on the deserted dance floor. Shiro, Matt, Hunk, Shay, and Coran all sat at another table, nursing their final drinks and fighting back sleep.

“I think,” Shiro declared after an extended silence, squinting at his watch, “we should all head home. It’s almost sunrise, and I’ve got to be at work by ten.”

So the remaining few slowly gathered their things, clumsily hugged each other, and staggered back down the hallway to the front doors. The sky had just begun to lighten when Keith, the first to get out even with a barely-conscious Lance in tow, stumbled out of the convention centre. 

“Mm,” Lance muttered, his mouth pressed against Keith’s bicep. “I had a good time.”

“Me too,” Keith told him, and meant it. Then, to a concerned Allura, he said, “I can bring him back to the shop.”

She nodded, thanked him, and walked away, her head on Coran’s shoulder. Her arms were weighted down with gift bags.

Keith took a seat on one of the benches outside the entrance with Lance and waved goodbye to the others. He didn’t feel like going back to his apartment, or taking Lance back to In Bloom. So he just sat, and watched the sun’s rays peek over the horizon.

A few minutes after everyone else had gone, Keith felt Lance tap him on the arm. He looked over.

“Friends?” Lance held out a fist, slumping lower on the bench from exhaustion.

Keith hesitated. 

“Yeah. Friends,” he replied, pressing his knuckles gently to Lance’s. 

Lance smiled at him, as slow and sweet as the rising sun. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then promptly leaned down and vomited all over the sidewalk.

Keith groaned. This was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**gardenia:** you're lovely, secret love. _
> 
> chapter title from _cape cod kwassa kwassa_ by vampire weekend.
> 
> 1) this was so fun to write,,, sorry this update took so long but it is like 4500 words this time so  
> 2) pls tell me how i'm doing!! i live for feedback t b h  
> 3) also...if u ever wanna draw anything for this fic...pls link me or tag it with like iwjbyar or sth on tumblr...i would lov to see it omg


	4. don't know where to put my hands

“Hi, Ava. Yeah, it’s me! What’s up?”

Pidge’s voice, loud and uncharacteristically cheery, was easily heard from across the store. Keith, who’d tuned out the complaining soccer mom in front of him, strained to listen.

“Yeah! Mm-hm. Sure! I’ll see you at six? Okay, bye!” Was Pidge _giggling?_ Keith couldn’t help but smile. The girl really was head over heels.

“Excuse me.” Soccer Mom leaned over the counter. “I’m waiting for my frappuccino.”

“Right,” Keith replied, deadpan. “And I’m waiting for my death. Guess we can’t always get what we want.” 

Soccer Mom spluttered indignantly, turning bright pink. She opened her mouth to fire back, but Keith interrupted her. “Calm down,” he said. “I had to brew a new pot. It’ll be a couple minutes still.”

She scowled, tossed her hair—cut into that ugly layered bob all middle-aged women seemed to have—and walked away, not bothering to stick around. Keith sighed.

Just as the front door swung shut behind her, a familiar voice said, “Such a charmer.” 

Keith glanced over towards the Poetry aisle. Lance was leaning up against the end of the shelf, grinning good-naturedly. He looked completely at ease, as if he hadn’t thrown up on Keith’s shoes less than 48 hours ago. His earrings were tiny stained-glass dandelions and, in a tight black tank top and skinny jeans, he could’ve been just another art student milling around Open Book.

“Why are you here?”

Lance held a hand to his heart in mock horror. “Keith! I thought we were friends now! I might have been super drunk, but I do remember our sacred fist bump.” 

Cracking a smile, Keith allowed himself to relax. “Okay then. What brings you here on this disgustingly humid morning? _Pal,”_ he added sarcastically.

Lance laughed and crossed over to the café counter. “Haven’t gotten a chance to look around yet. Figured I’d stop by. Also—” he pointed at Keith, “I heard you make the best espresso in town, according to Hunk, who doesn’t even _like_ coffee. But anything would be better than the store-bought shit I’ve had to drink for the past couple weeks.”

Flattered, Keith nodded. “One espresso, coming right up.” He headed to the back counter, filled the kettle, and turned the stove on. Once the water began to boil, he returned back to the cash register.

Lance was lounging in the floral armchair in the sitting area, flipping through a slim blue book. The title read _Sylvia Plath: Collected Poems._

“I don’t love Plath as much as I do others,” he explained to Keith, who had come up behind him to peer over his shoulder. “But this poem—it’s called _The Rival_ —it’s amazing.” He cleared his throat, and began to read aloud.

 _“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of you are great light borrowers. Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected—”_ Lance paused, looking up at Keith with glittering eyes, searching for a reaction. Keith gave him a thumbs-up, which he immediately decided was lame. He hooked his thumb around his belt loop instead. 

“ _And your first gift is making stone out of everything.”_ Lance closed the book. “There’s more, but that’s my favorite part.”

“Wow,” Keith said, and meant it—the words _were_ pretty, but it was Lance’s voice that really interested him, gentle and reflective, accent rolling smoothly over the syllables.

“Y’know those plaques made out of wood hanging all around my shop? They’re all quotes from poems I love. And the sign hanging outside is from _Hamatreya_ by Emerson. I really like—” Lance started to say, jumping out of his seat. Then he stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, you’re probably not that into poetry.”

“No, no, it’s cool,” Keith reassured him. “Maybe after I finish making your espresso you could, uh, show me more?”

The look on Lance’s face—disbelieving, then joyous, childlike, even—was the best thing Keith had seen all day.

“Keith,” he said very seriously. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

______________________________________________

It was hot.

This wasn’t exactly unusual, since it was mid-July, but today had reached a high of unbearable. Keith had even forced himself to drink his morning coffee iced, and bought a half-melted popsicle from the convenience store across from Shay’s as he headed over to In Bloom.

It was funny, now, how his feet seemed to automatically turn towards the flower shop. Between shifts, after Open Book closed for the night, before it opened. If Lance wasn’t there, Keith would wait around on the front step, people-watching and examining the displays out front. If Lance was, Keith would hang around the store, prodding at flowers and listening to Lance chat with customers. 

If business was slow, he and Lance would retreat to the back room. Lance would strum bits and pieces of vaguely familiar songs on an ancient guitar, and Keith would try to hum along, but he was completely tone-deaf; it usually ended once they were too weak with laughter to continue. Or they’d lock up for a little while and wander around town—Keith would point out his favorite places, and Lance would flirt with every cute girl who walked by. They’d eventually find themselves at Shay’s, where they would eat platefuls of pastries and laugh as Matt, who worked as a part-time cashier, struggled through awkwardly affectionate conversations with Shiro, who’d “coincidentally” become a regular there. Or they would head over to Open Book, sprawling out in an emptier aisle with cups of coffee and stacks of poetry books. Sometimes Hunk and Pidge would join them, complaining about customers and gushing about their girlfriends, or in Pidge’s case, possibly-girlfriend.

Keith dragged the last of his popsicle off the stick by his teeth, and tapped his foot as he checked the time. Five minutes until the shop opened.

Finally, a pair of pristine high-tops came sauntering around the corner and halted on the sidewalk in front of Keith. 

“Hey.” 

Keith squinted up into the morning sun. Lance was carrying a bag of soil under one arm and a small plastic container in the other. The label read ATOMIC TURQUOISE. “Wanna do me a favor?” He beamed down at Keith, brighter than the sunlight streaming in behind him.

Keith sighed, faking exasperation. “I _guess_ so. What do you want?”

Lance handed him the container and dug his keys out of his pocket, twirling them around one finger. “You’re gonna help me re-dye my hair.” 

A few minutes later, Lance was sitting on the floor in the shop’s back room, shoulders pressing into Keith’s thighs. Keith was perched on a bench above him, scooping out handfuls of the blue-green cream and unceremoniously dumping it on top of Lance’s head. 

“You have to massage it in,” Lance complained. He ran one hand over Keith’s work, mixing the cream into his hair. The bleached parts were starting to fade, revealing deep brown roots. “Like that.”

Keith absentmindedly scratched at his chin, then pulled away immediately when he remembered the dye. He stared down at his deeply stained palms. “Is it safe to do this without gloves?”

“Won’t come out for a couple days—it’s semi-permanent—but it’s not toxic. Unless you eat it, duh,” Lance replied. “Here, give it a try.” 

Keith frowned. “I need to clip back my bangs. Can’t see shit with them falling in the way.” He blew a few strands off his forehead, then held out his turquoise hands. “Do you have any clips?”

“Yeah. Hang on.” Lance wriggled out from between Keith’s knees and leapt to his feet, disappearing through the bead curtain into the main area. Keith waited, keeping still so he wouldn’t smear dye over anything. 

_Not that the mess would make much of a difference,_ he noted, gazing around him. Lance had only moved into In Bloom just over a month ago, and the back room was already a disaster zone: covered in smears of blue paint and peachy clay, leaf trimmings and long tracks of soil. Pre-made bouquets covered a few unsteady tables, unglazed vases lined a long counter against the far side, and the sink next to Keith’s bench was filled to the brim with unwashed paintbrushes. There were decorative candles, ribbon wheels, and piles of stencils everywhere, most of them scattered carelessly over the floorboards.

“Got it!” Lance bounded back through the swaying beads, clutching something shiny and magenta in his fist. “Kids leave so many things behind when they come in with their parents. I have a drawer with everything I’ve found in hopes they’ll come back to get it.”

“Don’t you have anything less...pink?”

Lance pouted. “Get over yourself. It’s a color. Besides, you promised you’d help me.”

Keith reached out for it, then stopped. “I can’t put it in.”

“What?”

“I can’t put the clip in.” He waved his hands emphatically. A glob of turquoise landed on his sneaker. “I’m not getting this shit in _my_ hair.”

Rolling his eyes, Lance crouched in front of him. “It’s like I’m your mom or something. Here, hold still.” 

Before Keith could ask him what he thought he was doing, Lance’s slender fingers twisted through his bangs and pushed them back in one deft motion. Pulling just hard enough to make Keith’s eyes water, Lance clipped the heavy black locks flat against his head. 

“There,” Lance said, a little breathlessly. “Jeez, your hair’s greasy as—” He broke off with a gasp.

Keith, who was rubbing at his mistreated scalp, stopped and stared up at him. Eyes wide, lips half-open, Lance looked like he’d seen something either beautiful or horrible. 

“What?” Keith whirled around, wondering if there was anything behind him. But of course there wasn’t—only him and the wall. He turned his gaze back to Lance, brow raised, questioning.

“Sorry,” Lance whispered. “You just—um, your eyes. I didn’t really notice them before.”

“They’re just grey.” Keith squirmed uncomfortably on the bench. He desperately wanted Lance to stop looking at him. 

“No,” Lance said, barely audible. “Violet, almost, in this light. Or maybe indigo. And your eyelashes are really long. I—” He closed his mouth; apparently he’d said more than he wanted to. “Sorry,” he repeated.

Stunned, Keith tried to come up with an answer. “Uh—that’s—I mean...thank you? That was kind of surprising. No one’s ever said that about my eyes before.” He tried a small smile. _Relax, Keith. It’s just a compliment._

Lance seemed incredibly relieved. “Oh. Well, I’m glad to be the first.” He wiped a smudge of dye off the back of his neck and returned the smile. “Should we keep going with my hair?”

Keith nodded gratefully. Lance sat down between his knees once more, and they continued like that for another few minutes. But it was obvious that the atmosphere had changed; Lance kept moving his weight from side to side, fingers drumming a nervous pattern on his thighs, and the sweat on Keith’s forehead had nothing to do with the heatwave. He stared down at the curve of Lance’s neck and wished he hadn’t decided to help.

After what seemed like hours, Lance said, “That’s enough, thanks.” His voice, although cheerful, had a tense edge to it.

Keith let go of Lance’s hair immediately. “Oh, okay. Do you want me to stay and help you wash it out, or…?” He trailed off, already knowing the answer.

“Um, no, that’s fine. The dye needs to sit for half an hour. Besides, doesn’t your shift start soon?” Lance stood up and walked over to the vase counter, pressing his thumb against each one to test how solid it was. It was clear he didn’t want Keith there anymore.

“Right,” Keith exclaimed, although he didn’t actually know if that was true. “I better go. See you tomorrow?”

Lance turned to examine a small terracotta pot. “Yeah. Sure.”

Keith scuffed one shoe along the floor, nodded, and hurried out, pretending that he didn’t see Lance gazing after him.

When he stepped outside, he realized he’d forgotten to wash off the dye. Wiping his fingers on his jeans, he gingerly pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. His shift didn’t start for over an hour.

______________________________________________

The faint sound of a bubbly pop song, incongruous to the grimy interior of the Shirogane Mechanics garage, greeted Keith as he came in, Lance trailing close behind.

Earlier, Lance had persuaded Keith to go with him to what he called “his favorite place in the world, besides Varadero Beach.” In this case, “persuaded” meant pretending to sob wretchedly at Keith's feet until he gave in, wondering if Hunk had let Lance in on his weakness. 

“It’s amazing,” Lance had told him, gesturing madly as he described it. “Aspen Ridge—you can see the entire town! And there are so many beautiful flowers and trees and just sitting up there at sundown is incredible, Keith, _pleasepleaseplease…”_

So they had gone to the mechanic to pick up Lance’s bike, which Shiro had promised to fix by that morning. Keith had protested at this—how could a bike fit two people, and how could Lance even get it up the mountain? Couldn't they just borrow someone’s car?—but Lance had simply told him to wait and see.

“Where’s—” Keith began, but Lance was already walking over to a black convertible parked next to a stack of spare tires. A pair of steel-toed boots peeked out from underneath.

Lance crouched down and tapped the sole of one of the boots. A few seconds later, the rest of Nyma slid out from beneath the car. She was lying on a small wheeled platform, clasping a wrench in her fist, her face smeared with grease. “Hey, Keith! Hey, Lance! Are you guys here to see Shiro?”

Lance beamed down at her. “Yeah. He in the back?” He grabbed her outstretched hand and helped her to her feet.

“Mm-hm.” Nyma shook out her cornrows, piercings glittering as she tossed her head. “He’s always there now. Texting his _boyfriend._ You know, Pidge’s brother. I swear I’ve been doing all the work around here for the past few weeks.”

Lance whistled. “Good for him. And you—how’s Allura?”

Nyma bit her lip, trying not to smile. “Good. She...she’s amazing.”

“Bet she is,” Lance laughed, then turned back to Keith. “Should we go?”

Keith nodded. He couldn’t say anything—the mention of Shiro dating Matt had shaken him badly, but he didn’t know why.

“All right. Gotta go, Nyma! I’m taking Keith up to Aspen Ridge, and I need my bike asap.”

“Ooooh,” Nyma cooed. “Aspen Ridge. Good choice. Well, see ya!” She flashed Keith a wink—so quickly that he barely saw it, then laid back down on her platform and rolled beneath the convertible once more.

Keith and Lance headed towards the back of the garage. A screen door in the back wall led to Shiro’s office, and they could see him behind it, sitting at his desk.

Shiro didn’t notice when they came in—his gaze was fixated on his phone. A grin split his features as he tapped away. Keith coughed, and he looked up. “Hey!” He stood up and reached over the desk, pulling Keith into an one-armed hug, ruffling his hair with his free hand. “How’ve you been? Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you much at Allura’s birthday. And Lance—hey, man, I fixed your bike. Brakes work fine now.”

“Were you talking to Matt?” Keith pointed at Shiro’s phone.

Cheekbones dusted pink, Shiro ducked his head and let go of Keith. “Yeah. We’re, uh, going to see a movie tonight.”

“So it’s official!” Lance exclaimed. “Nice!” He went in for a fist-bump, which Shiro gladly returned. After their knuckles touched, Lance got this look on his face—like he’d just won a million dollars.

“Enough about me, though,” Shiro added. “How’s business? What’re you guys up to?”

“It’s pretty slow this afternoon, so Keith and I are headed to Aspen Ridge. Can you believe this guy has lived here for almost five months and not seen it yet?”

Shiro laughed. “Keith’s a real introvert. C’mon, I better give you back your bike so you can make it there in time for sundown.” He walked around his desk and pushed the door open. “It’s parked across by Rax’s car, at the other end of the garage.”

On their way over, Lance kept giggling to himself. “Shiro’s so cool. He’s so cool. _He fist-bumped me, Keith!_ Oh, and what’s with his arm?”

“Accident,” Keith replied. “Got stuck under a lift. He was working as an apprentice for some other mechanic a few years ago and—” He shuddered a little as he imagined it.

“Jeez,” Lance whispered. “Poor guy.”

“Yeah,” Keith agreed. “Shiro’s gone through a lot. He’s tough, though. And I know he’s still hurting. I know his pain might never go away, but he still manages to be so—so gentle. And, I don’t know, so _good.”_

“Do you—” Lance swallowed audibly, voice tentative now. “Do you guys have, um, history?”

_“What?”_

“Here it is!” Shiro suddenly called. “Like new!”

Keith stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped.

“Nice! Thanks, man!” Lance sauntered past him.

“Yeah,” Keith breathed. “Y’know, when you said bike, I didn’t know you meant _this_ kind.”

Lance’s motorcycle gleamed under the fluorescent garage lights. Silver-handled and sleek and the same shade of teal as In Bloom’s storefront, it should have looked ridiculous, especially with _McClain-Santana_ emblazoned on it in bright green. But as Lance swung one leg over the seat, grinning broadly, it was clear that the bike belonged to him as it could to no one else.

“Sweet ride, huh? Hurry up,” Lance yelped, waving at Keith frantically. “It’s a pretty long drive, and time’s a-wasting!”

Keith walked over, frowning. “There’s only one seat, though.”

Lance smirked.

 _“Oh,”_ Keith realized. “Oh, no way. I am _not_ going to cling to your waist as we ride off into the sunset. Never in a million years.”

Lance just smirked wider. “I don’t have an extra helmet. Gonna have to hold on tight.”

“Go for it, Keith!” Shiro urged. “Have some fun for once!”

“I hope you know you’re making me suffer,” Keith told him, but for some reason, he slid onto the seat behind Lance. Gingerly, he gripped Lance’s shoulders, caving his chest so he wasn’t leaning up against Lance’s back.

Shiro gave him a thumbs-up. Keith gave him the finger in response. Shiro only smiled wider and waved.

Lance slid his helmet on and revved the engine. “Nice! Let’s go.” As the bike jolted into motion, Keith nearly drove his nails into Lance’s neck.

“Put your goddamn arms around my waist, Keith. It’s not gay if it saves your life,” Lance deadpanned, voice muffled by his helmet.

Keith refused. Lance picked up speed. Keith felt his spine twist in a horribly unnatural way as he struggled to keep steady.

“Arms. Now!” Lance yelled as he pulled out of the garage into blinding sunlight, and Keith thought he was actually going to die so he flung his arms around Lance’s middle and _squeezed._ Despite the hot afternoon sun, Keith shivered in the wind. He gave in and flattened himself against Lance’s back to leech off his warmth.

“Y’know,” Lance choked out as they sped towards the freeway. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I think you just ruptured several of my internal organs.”

______________________________________________

Forty-five minutes later, Lance skidded into an unpolished stop, wheels churning up gravel that attacked Keith’s ankles. “Here we are.”

Keith looked up. When they’d reached the mountain’s base, the wind had become so strong he had to bury his face in Lance’s shoulder lest his eyes start to water. He blinked in confusion. “This is it?”

Apparently, Aspen Ridge was a patch of gravel not much bigger than the motorbike itself, lying just off the highway surrounded by a thicket of birch trees.

“It isn't really that impressive. No offense.”

“This isn’t _actually_ it,” Lance snapped. “We have to hike from here. I’m just parking the bike.”

Keith climbed off the back, leg muscles screaming in protest. “I’m not exactly in the best shape for this.”

“Neither am I,” Lance replied. “But if we run, it won’t take that long. Come on—” he grabbed Keith’s wrist and began pulling him along, kicking up the forest floor as he went. The two of them stumbled over rotting logs and massive boulders, dodging low-hanging branches, and occasionally stopping to gasp for breath. The air was cooler the further up they went, tearing at Keith’s lungs.

Finally, they reached an area of sparser trees, and beyond them Keith could see an open field, long yellowed grasses dancing in the breeze. Lance came to a halt. “There it is,” he panted with all the excitement of a child. “Welcome to Aspen Ridge!”

Keith had once wondered, as he lay bleeding in a rain-drenched alleyway, if he would live to see anything beautiful ever again. Chest aching with every breath he took, he’d decided he wasn’t meant for beauty.

But this— _this,_ with the sun streaking the clouds with gold and the wind carrying faint birdsong and Lance standing next to him, glowing in the evening light, elegant fingers still curled around his wrist—this was the most beautiful thing in the world, Keith decided.

“Come on,” Lance said breathlessly. “There’s more.” They began to wade through the grass, steps carefully as if any sudden movement would break the spell this place had on them.

Near the end of the field, they came to a narrow rock path. Keith had one foot on it when suddenly Lance’s hands rose up in front of him and covered his eyes. “What the _hell?”_

“Don’t worry,” Lance said, giggling. “I’m gonna surprise you. Keep walking.” 

So he did, stumbling and staggering and holding his arms out to protect himself if he fell, Lance trying his best not to laugh behind him, until finally Lance let go and said “Open your eyes.”

Keith opened them, and nearly screamed in terror.

He was standing on a crumbling ledge covered with moss, the tips of his sneakers dangerously close to the edge. Below him, the freeway snaked towards the base of the mountain, and past that, Keith could see the town stretching out, toy-sized cars weaving through the tiny streets.

“Impressive, huh?” Keith turned his head a fraction of an inch—any more and he was sure he’d fall. Lance was crouched in the grass behind him, grinning. A willow tree hung over him, leaves brushing at his hair and ears.

“You _asshole,_ Lance,” Keith snapped. “I could’ve died.”

“I would have caught you,” Lance replied, flexing his skinny arms. “I’m pretty damn strong.”

“Yeah, right.” Keith crawled back up into the grass next to him. “It is pretty, though.”

“Mm.” Lance wound a branch around his finger. “I come up here once a week at least.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, staring at the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Lance blurted, leaning over and poking at the hair lying thick on Keith’s neck. “Why do you have a mullet in this day and age?” 

Keith groaned. “College mistake. There was a bet I couldn’t refuse. I’m trying to grow it out, but—” he swept his hair back with one hand, “it’s taking a while.”

“Mm. This, unlike your disaster, wasn’t a mistake,” Lance told him, gesturing at his overgrown undercut. “I was trying to be cool. Did it all myself, too, and kept it like that until Hunk called me—just a couple weeks before I moved here, actually—and told me I looked stupid. I still like to dye it, though.”

Keith pictured a slightly smaller version of Lance standing in front of a bathroom mirror, holding an electric razor nervously. The thought made him laugh.

“Hey,” Lance whined, playfully shoving at him. “Don’t make fun of my geeky younger self.”

Sighing heavily, Lance flung himself back into the grass, sprawled out like this was his home. Keith laid down beside him, privately reveling in the fact they could act like this around each other, and still be comfortable. 

It was blissfully quiet up here. All the town’s sounds were muted beyond the rustling grasses and swaying willow leaves, the bright blue sky slowly softening as afternoon bled into evening. Keith watched a bird soar overhead, impulsively reaching out as if to touch its feathers. When it disappeared beyond his line of view, Keith’s gaze—as it so often did, now—fell to Lance, all sun-warmed skin and relaxed limbs. Lashes fluttered slightly against his cheeks. It was easy to tell that he was on the brink of sleep. 

Keith closed his eyes, too, and listened to himself breathe.

“Your elbow is digging into my side,” Lance said suddenly.

Keith smacked his arm. “Way to ruin the moment, asshole.”

“Hey,” Lance griped, curling into himself with his back to Keith, a strip of his tawny back exposed between his jacket and jeans. Keith resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. “Those bony little elbows _hurt,_ man.”

“Well— _oh.”_

“What?” Lance sat up, squinting past Keith’s pointing finger. “Oh, wow.”

The sun had just slid below the horizon, turning the sky around it all shades of rosy pink and orange, rays dancing in one final burst over the world. It made everything a little softer around the edges, a little calmer. Keith felt as if time was slowing down. He looked over.

There was grass in Lance’s hair, which Keith though was unfairly cute, and his jacket had slipped off one shoulder, but what really captured Keith’s attention were his eyes. They were wide and deep, deep blue and glistening with—

_Was Lance crying?_

Keith watched in shock as tears rolled silently down Lance’s face, joining under his chin and dripping onto his shirt. Lance pressed his fingers to his mouth and lowered his eyelids, brow furrowing with the effort not to sob. His shoulders were shaking.

“Hey—” Keith began, but his mouth dried up and he couldn’t continue. Instead, he placed a tentative hand on Lance’s back, and sat there, waiting patiently and watching the sunset. 

When the sky had darkened and the only lights were those from the town, Lance raised his head. His cheeks were blotchy, his lips trembling, but he seemed more at ease. “Sorry you had to see that,” he said, voice quivering. “It’s just—these sunsets, they make me miss Cuba. The warmth and the noise and the ocean. And my family.”

“It’s okay,” Keith replied softly. “I get it.”

Lance glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Y-you do? You never told me about your parents. What’re they like?” 

Keith’s pulse sped up as he fumbled for an answer. “Um—”

Then, as if understanding Keith’s discomfort, Lance gasped aloud and grabbed his hand. “Look up!”

Keith looked up. This far away from the busy town, all the stars spilled out like a painting on the sky’s indigo canvas, their light distant but bright. The moon hung overhead, silvery-white and beaming down at them. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he breathed, completely dazzled.

“It’s something, all right.”

Keith returned his gaze to Lance for a moment. Lance smiled back, tear-stained and smudged with dirt and hopelessly beautiful, his grip tightening around Keith’s palm.

“Thanks for this,” Keith told him. “ I mean it. Thank you, Lance—for everything.”

______________________________________________

Keith felt awful.

This was nothing new, but for some reason, tonight it was affecting him more than ever.

On the way back from Aspen Ridge, he and Lance had been silent, contemplating the evening’s events. They’d parted ways at In Bloom with a casual wave and a “See you tomorrow,” and Keith had wanted to say something more to Lance’s retreating back but instead turned and ran off.

Now, his heartbeat thudding against his ribs like a jackhammer, stomach twisting itself into knots, Keith unlocked his apartment door and let himself in. He kicked his shoes off and made a beeline for his bedroom. Stripping down to his t-shirt and underwear, he curled up on the partially deflated mattress he called a bed, and, momentarily forgetting the stifling heat, he pulled the unmade blankets over his head. 

His phone buzzed from where it had been abandoned on the floor. He ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again. 

Keith groaned and leaned over, fumbling in the darkness for the damned thing. His hand bumped against it and sent it skidding out of reach. He lunged to grab it, tangling his legs in his blankets in the process so that he ended up lying half on the ground, half on the mattress. 

The phone buzzed once more. 

Resting his head against the floorboards, Keith brought the screen up to his face and squinted.

 **pidgeon:** _hey loverboy_  
**pidgeon:** _mullet man_  
**pidgeon:** _keithy_  
**pidgeon:** _btich i know ur awake_

Keith groaned once more and dropped his phone on his chest. It was _eleven-thirty_ —what did Pidge think she was doing? And on a work night! He picked the device back up, eyes stinging from the brightness, and tapped out a sullen reply.

 **greasy zuko:** _fuck do you want_  
**pidgeon:** _ava and me r officially DATIN we kissed and everything_  
**pidgeon:** _u owe me $$$ scrub_  
**greasy zuko:** _good for u_  
**greasy zuko:** _no honestly I mean it, but I’m not paying you shit we never had a deal. besides I’m broke_  
**pidgeon:** _aw did u blow all ur cash on ur boyf_  
**greasy zuko:** _boyf??_  
**pidgeon:** _boyfriend u imbecile. i’m talking about lance mcclain-santana. u kno, skinny, annoyingly tall, flat ass, runs a flower shop where u spend all ur damn time_  
**greasy zuko:** _LANCE????? no way in hell_  
**pidgeon:** _denial aint just a river in egypt_  
**greasy zuko:** _wait how do you know he has a flat ass_  
**pidgeon:** _the boy is literally always at open book. like if you're not at his place he’s browsing or buying coffee or hitting on you. i’ve seen more of him than i want to_

A vague sort of nausea rose in Keith’s throat. 

**greasy zuko:** _I’m...straight...?? so is he as far as I know._  
**pidgeon:** _jeez_  
**pidgeon:** _rip_  
**pidgeon:** _wanna come over? ava’s here and we’re having an office marathon but i promise we arent gonna be weird and couple-y_  
**greasy zuko:** _nah I’m good_  
**greasy zuko:** _gonna go for a walk_

Keith kicked off his blankets and crawled groggily off the mattress. Searching his tiny room by the dim light of his phone, he located a pair of sweatpants that had been hanging from his closet doorknob for weeks. He pulled them on, then stumbled down the darkened hallway to his front door. There, he shoved his feet into his untied sneakers and left, not bothering to lock up—he had nothing worth stealing, anyway.

The air was colder than he’d expected. As he stood outside the building, a breeze ghosted past and made him shiver. 

“Well, Kogane,” he said aloud, teeth chattering a little. “What comes next?” His words rang out into the empty street.

He knew what came next—his legs were already taking him, down the block, passing right by Open Book, the other darkened shops blurring as he made his way along the deserted sidewalk. Every few seconds, the wind would tug at his shirt—too thin, arms bared—or his hair—matted to the back of his neck—and the rustling sound would break apart the silence of the night.

It was almost midnight when he neared the flower shop. Keith briefly wondered if he could find his way there blindfolded. 

There was a light on in the window of the upstairs apartment.

Faint echoes of jazz drifted out from under the curtains, trumpets and swinging drumbeats, and Keith felt something tighten in his chest. He wanted to be there. He wanted to listen to Lance’s music and listen to Lance play guitar and listen to Lance talk about—about anything. He wanted Lance to read poetry in that strange, awe-filled tone, and he wanted to run his fingers over Lance’s skin and he wanted.

He wanted.

Keith pulled out his phone and began to type.

 _Hey,_ he wrote, and then stopped. Looked back up at the window. 

Lance had begun to sing along, so softly that Keith almost mistook his voice for a passing breeze. He was a little breathless, a little off-key, but Keith found that he didn’t mind at all.

_“Living for you is easy living, it’s easy to live when you're in love…”_

“I should go,” Keith said, aloud only by accident. 

But he didn't. Instead he sat down heavily on the front step of In Bloom and listened to Lance sing until the music stopped and he heard a light click off.

He felt dirty. Invasive. _Wrong._

Keith glanced up at the moon, then down at his sneakers. Lying just beside his left foot was a stray blossom, probably fallen from the displays Lance brought in for the night.

It was a tulip, discolored by dust, but under the streetlight’s glow Keith could see that it used to be a rich crimson. One side was crushed, petals mangled, probably by someone’s careless foot.

Keith had no idea what it meant.

 _Lance could tell me,_ he thought, and suddenly his eyes began to sting. He clutched the tulip to his chest.

It was the first time he'd cried since Allura had found him near-dead in that alleyway almost half a year ago. 

Only a few silent tears hit the pavement, but Keith felt very much as if he were drowning, sinking deeper and deeper with every drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**red tulip:** believe me, declaration of love. _
> 
> chapter title from _francis forever_ by mitski.
> 
> jeez, sorry guys! it's been such a long time! school n The Depression are really getting me down lately....but i hope this chapter made up for it a little!!! i'm not overly happy with it yet tho so this'll probably get edited down a lot lol
> 
> 1) nyma is everyone's fave soft butch trans lesbean  
> 2) me, shaking keith angrily by the shoulders: HONEY YOURE GAY  
> 3) pls leave comments!! i love them n i'm always looking for constructive criticism :0
> 
>  **edit:** i see a lot of you are confused about keith telling pidge he's straight. i purposely wrote him that way because i see him struggling with a lot of internalized homophobia. so like...just to let you know this isn't supposed to really be a funny thing.


	5. pick me up and take me home again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please be warned that this chapter contains descriptions of violence, parental death, substance abuse, and homophobia. read on with caution, everyone!

August found them sprawled over the dusty floor behind In Bloom’s cash register, fiddling with plant trimmings and talking for hours about whatever popped into their heads. Well, Lance did most of the talking. Keith preferred to listen, especially when Lance read bits of poems aloud; voice lyrical, lilting as he recited. Or he’d sound angry—spiteful, even—when he spoke of protest and injustice, brows furrowed and knuckles almost white where he held the page. Keith would tip his head back and listen, occasionally glancing over. It was hard not to look at Lance, after all; the delicate planes of his face combined with the freckled up-tilt of his nose and defined jaw made him strange but undeniably—no, handsome wasn’t it. It was somewhere between that and pretty, but Keith could never pin the exact word down. 

The heat was more sickening than ever, having evolved from July’s drier warmth to humidity and rain. Irritated by the copious amounts of sweat sticking his hair to his throat, Keith had resorted to tying it up daily—and, oddly enough, upon seeing his ponytail for the first time, Lance went completely non-verbal for a solid minute. 

Today had been incredibly slow: only two customers had shown up since Keith had dashed to In Bloom after his morning shift at the bookstore ended. He and Lance had been sitting in the same spot under the counter for what seemed like hours, and Keith’s foot was starting to go numb. They’d exhausted most of their normal topics, resorting instead to humming idly and gazing around at their familiar surroundings.

“Okay,” Lance finally exclaimed, drumming his fingertips against the floor. “I’ve had enough silence. It’s twenty questions time!” He grinned expectantly at Keith.

Keith stared back, incredulous. “What is this, summer camp? No thanks.”

Pouting, Lance slumped over beside him. “Listen, I’ve already sobbed my eyes out in front of you. Now we have to have deep talk. Who _are_ you, Keith Kogane?” He pretended to hold a magnifying glass up to his eye. “Tell me your secrets!”

Keith sighed. “Fine. You go first.”

Lance crossed his legs and fiddled with a few stray sweet pea blossoms he’d found in the shelves beneath the register, weaving them into a sort of crown with his agile fingers. “Um...okay. When’s your birthday?”

“I hardly think that’s deep talk,” Keith retorted, but Lance shushed him. 

“Gotta know so I can get you a present.” 

“It’s April tenth.”

“No way!” Lance burst out laughing. “I should’ve _known_ you were an Aries! Hostile, impatient, moody—it all adds up!” 

Keith punched his arm. “Fuck off.”

“Mm, no, but seriously. Aries is cool. I’m a Leo, August twentieth.” 

“That’s soon,” Keith mused, tipping his head up to look at the ceiling. A fan that he hadn’t noticed before spun above him, made of the same wood as the rest of the shop. A few vines dangled down from it, swaying gently as the blades circled.

“Now you. Ask me whatever.”

“Um,” Keith said as he racked his brain. “What’s your...favorite color?”

Rolling his eyes, Lance gestured at his shirt. “With the motorcycle and the hair and the paint on the signs, didn’t you guess?”

“Blue suits you,” Keith replied, which seemed to placate Lance enough to make his lips curve up in a little goofy smile. He glanced away, a slight flush spreading over the back of his neck, then looked back up. 

“Okay, how about this. What’s your favorite song?”

“I don’t listen to music. Except for when you play it.”

Lance’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. _“What.”_

Keith frowned. “I didn’t have time growing up. It’s not that weird.”

“Wow,” Lance breathed. “Back home, everyone goes nuts for music. And even at college—it was just, like, a _thing._ You know. It’s a little strange.”

Shrugging, Keith looked down at his hands. “I never thought it was. Uh, have you ever…” He played with the hairs at the back of his neck for a moment, wondering what topic would be more interesting. “Have you ever kissed somebody?”

Lance snorted at that. “Of course! This isn’t ninth grade, Kogane. You really think no keg parties in uni ended in drunk makeouts?”

“Well, I never went to one. And, um—” Keith really shouldn’t have been this embarrassed, but he was, pink-faced and sweaty-palmed like some gawky teenager. “I’ve never kissed anyone.”

He expected Lance to laugh in disbelief. To his surprise, though, Lance only nodded pensively, poking his tongue out of his mouth a little as if deep in thought. “Hm. That’s fine. Take your time!” Then, he added, “My turn. How did you get here?”

“Evolution.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Lance grumbled. “I meant, why are you where you are now?”

Everything stopped all at once.

The fan’s blades halted, Lance’s fingers froze around the pea blossoms, and Keith’s heartbeat was the only sound he knew, hammering on his ribs, pulse pounding against his wrists, chest seizing up over and over until—until— 

_Standing over two open caskets, fury racing through his veins, a bouquet of lilies crushed between his fingers. Blood, sticky streams of it, smudged over his knuckles and drying on the bow of his lips. The taste of iron and gravel on his tongue. The glint of a knife in the cheerful mid-afternoon sun as it pressed against his stomach, just hard enough to break the skin. All the crying he couldn’t understand, tears tracking through the smears of dirt on his cheeks. Clothes shoved hastily into a backpack, a scribbled note left on his aunt’s bedside table, closing the front door as quietly as he could and running into the night, not knowing where he would go._

“I,” Keith said, throat closing up. “I,” he tried again, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t cry in front of Lance. 

“Hey.” Lance put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Keith, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Keith dragged a hand through his hair and looked away. “No, it’s okay. I can do it. But—don’t, like, worry about what I’m saying. ‘Cause it’s all already happened.”

Dipping his head in agreement, Lance stretched his legs out, recrossing them daintily at the ankles. “Go for it.”

Keith took a deep breath. “Okay.” He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, searching for a place to start from. 

“My parents died in a car crash when I was seven,” he began, drumming his fingertips against his knees. “I loved them more than anything else in the world, and I felt so fucked over by their deaths that I started acting out. At school, I would beat up anyone who bothered me. All my friends dropped me in the blink of an eye. I picked fights with kids twice my age, losing mostly, but from that I kind of learned how to stand up for myself. My aunt Kaori, who took me in, tried to talk to me about it. Tried to take me into therapy, make my cry about my parents like it was going to fix everything. Hell, she put me on weird vegan diets and made me take hot yoga classes.” 

Lance laughed gently, but it was clear he was listening intently.

“When I was about thirteen, I got mixed up in some bullshit. These kids from a nearby high school found me one night in an empty parking lot with a knife to some grown man’s throat, and recruited me into their stupid little gang. I tried to say no, but they—they threatened me. Told me awful things. I had to follow their every order, they said, if I wanted to live. Anyway, I kept it secret until they showed up at my house, with all their fucking switchblades and badly inked tattoos out in plain view, yelling about how I needed to get my ass outside _now._ Aunt Kaori answered the door.”

“What did you do?” Lance asked, leaning closer in anticipation.

“She took one look at them, slammed the door shut, and told me to pack my bags because we were moving out that night. I’d never seen her so angry before—she was big on pacifism and stuff, and I guess she felt like I’d really betrayed her. We got all our stuff together and drove to her girlfriend’s apartment across town. A week later, Kaori told me that she was sending me to an alternative school. Y’know. For ‘troubled kids.’ She hated those places, but she didn’t think there was anything else she could do. And there were these guys there.” Keith bit his lip, not trusting himself to continue just yet.

Lance’s mouth made a little ‘o’ of shock. “Oh, _Keith._ Did they—” His implication hung heavy in the air.

“No,” Keith reassured him. “No, I wouldn’t have let that happen to me. Would’ve killed them if they tried. But they could see right through me, they knew how angry I was. How I would just snap in an _instant_ if someone got on my nerves. But they only watched. Watched me for years. Until I was seventeen and they caught up to me while I was walking home after school and pulled me into an empty lot and—” He paused, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “Do you want to see what they did to me?”

Lance nodded, eyes wide. Keith hesitated for a moment, then pulled his shirt up to his chest.

Forming a bridge between his navel and right hip was a spindly, pinkish-white scar, zig-zagging across the pale skin. A thicker, raised scar trailed down his side, running over his three bottom ribs. It was shorter, but the cut was unquestionably deep. 

“Bruised a couple ribs, too. Broke my nose, sprained my ankle and wrist. They called me, um, things. You know.”

“Oh,” Lance murmured. “Yeah.” He reached out and ran a hesitant finger over the scars. Keith’s stomach tensed up at the touch.

They stared at each other for a split second, Lance’s hand flat and warm against the planes of Keith’s abdomen.

And then Lance coughed and shifted away, casting his gaze to the floorboards. Keith bit back the urge to tell him, _Don’t stop._ Instead, he pulled his shirt back down. Clearing his throat, he continued.

“And then they ran away. And so did I. I left a note for Aunt Kaori and her girlfriend and took off with just my wallet and phone and knife and a few extra clothes. I just ran. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to leave. And still the anger didn’t go away. For years, I stayed in cheap motels and hitchhiked and slept on the street if I had to. I was trying to heal and stay quiet. I began working part-time jobs to keep myself on my feet.” 

“And then Allura found you.”

“Right. I’d enrolled in community college. Slept on the couch of someone who didn’t completely hate me. Kept my head down and focused on work. But I still had the itch. I still couldn’t handle how I felt. I started drinking, smoking, getting into fights again. I got beat up pretty badly in an alleyway once. Fractured my arm. Thankfully, Allura’s old apartment—it was just on the other side of this town, actually—was in one of the surrounding buildings. She heard me scream and came outside. By that time, the asshole that did it had run away. Without asking any questions, Allura drove me to the hospital.” 

Keith’s throat was dry from talking; his voice thin and a little raspy. He didn’t doubt that he’d said more words in the past five or so minutes than he had in the past year.

“So,” he concluded. “Allura got me back on my feet for good. She helped me rent out an apartment all to myself, made me finish college, gave me a job. And now I’m here. I owe, like, everything to her, really. Without her, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“Wow,” Lance breathed. “Keith, I’m—”

“Don’t.” Keith sighed and shut his eyes. “Please, don’t say you’re sorry. I’m fine. And, honestly, most of it was my fault.”

“No.” Lance’s chin trembled. 

“Anger is just baggage, Lance. It hurt me, and because of that I hurt others. I nearly killed people.”

“You didn’t mean to—you couldn’t have.” 

“But I _did_ mean to,” Keith said, his throat tight. “I’ve accepted that.”

 _“No,”_ Lance snapped, and he sounded horribly like he was crying again. “Here—” and then his elbow hooked around Keith’s neck and pulled him closer until his mouth was pressed against the warm skin just above Lance's collarbone.

Despite himself, Keith relaxed, tentatively putting one arm around Lance’s waist in semblance of a hug. He angled himself so that he was kneeling between Lance’s thighs, and slumped awkwardly against him, cheek pressed just above his heart.

“It wasn’t your fault. Any of it,” Lance whispered, gentle against the top of Keith’s head, and Keith closed his eyes again, fighting away a few stray tears.

“Thanks,” he murmured back, lips brushing the collar of Lance's shirt, because that was all he could say. _What else do you tell someone who deserves more than you can give them?_

A bell jangled at the front of the store, followed by the sound of shoes creaking against the floorboards.

“Fuck,” Lance hissed, and shot to his feet, unceremoniously dumping Keith on the floor. “Hello?”

“Hey, Lance.”

Hunk’s amiable tone was instantly recognizable. Keith would have gotten up to greet him, too, but Lance nudged him with his foot and shot him a look that said, _Stay down._

“Buddy! How’s it going?”

“I’m here to buy flowers for Shay.” Hunk couldn't keep the bubbliness out of his voice. Keith grinned to himself. His friend really was head over heels. 

_Well, who wouldn’t be?_ he asked himself. _Shay's beautiful. And kind and smart—and an amazing baker. Anyone would be lucky to have her._

Keith froze.

_Would I be?_

Keith liked girls. He did—Allura’s strength and fragility, her compassionate but no-nonsense attitude. Nyma’s bold, flirtatious exterior masking a sweet heart. Hell, as much as he hated to admit it, even Pidge’s curiosity and sarcastic drawl never failed to lighten his mood.

But he’d never really thought about _loving_ them. Not the way Hunk did. Or Lance or Shiro. He’d never had a girlfriend or a crush or anything—but he’d always chalked it up to him acting like a detached asshole for most of his life.

He bit at a fingernail, trying not to acknowledge the way his heart twisted inside his chest.

“Roses it is,” Lance sighed, his voice startling Keith out of his thoughts. “Seriously, Hunk, are you sure you don’t want something cooler?”

“Nah, sorry. Shay loves roses, and it’s our two-year anniversary, so I really wanna make it special.” 

“You got it. I’ll drop ‘em off tomorrow bright and early.” Lance drummed his fingernails on the counter. “And...let’s make them free. Just for you.”

Hunk snorted. “You’re not serious.”

“What can I say,” Lance hummed, his voice becoming honeyed like it did around pretty girls. “I’m a romantic at heart.”

“Sweet! Thanks, man.” Hunk took a few steps away, then he paused. “Oh, have you seen Keith? His shift starts soon, and we can’t find him anywhere.”

“Mm, no,” Lance lied. Keith looked up at him, confused, but Lance ignored him. “Good luck finding him! See ya!”

“Bye!” Hunk’s footsteps grew faint, and once the bell jangled again, Lance slid back down beneath the counter.

“What was that for?” Keith demanded. “Why did you pretend I wasn’t here?”

Gaze flickering downwards, Lance shrugged. His tongue poked out and pressed at his upper lip— _God damn it what was with Lance and his stupid oral fixation?_ “I wanted to spend more time with you.”

_Fuck._

Keith’s face felt hot. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” Lance replied, running a hand through his hair. It was loose today, a little feathery against the back of his neck. “That sounded weird, huh?”

“No, no,” Keith said abruptly. “No, it was fine. You—you’re good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, eyes shifting anywhere but each other—tension in the way Keith swallowed, the tightening of Lance’s jaw. Silence was a rare treasure of Keith’s, but this was different. This silence felt sick; it crawled over him and made his skin prickle.

“Uh,” Lance muttered at last. He’d picked the sweet pea blossoms up again and twisted them around his fingers. “So, I was wondering. I asked you the afternoon we went to Aspen Ridge, but you never answered.”

“Oh.” Keith shook his head. “No. Me and Shiro, you mean?”

Lance nodded. “I thought—because you talked about him like that—”

“No way,” Keith laughed. “Nah, Shiro’s great, but he’s more like a brother to me. Besides, he’s like, thirty-two.”

Lance bit his lip _again_ —Keith was going to have to pry his teeth off at this point. “Cool. Oh, but— You never, uh, said anything about not liking guys. Are you, um, y’know?”

_A fist drove into his stomach right below his ribs, coupled with a snarled word that hurt worse than the punch—_

“No.”

“Ah.” 

Keith glanced at his watch, itching to avoid further conversation. “Like Hunk said, my shift starts soon. I better go.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow?” Lance tossed him the sweet pea crown. “Here. Means ‘thank you for a lovely time,’ you know.”

“I’d hardly call that lovely,” Keith scoffed. “Sorry for making you listen to all that.”

Lance waved his comment off. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad you told me.”

Keith smiled, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet for a moment, then remembered his shift. “I—uh—bye,” he blurted, and turned to leave.

“Hey, Keith!” 

He looked back. 

Lance was leaning over the counter, grinning at him like he knew something Keith didn’t. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

Face heating up again, Keith nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

The sheer truth of it surprised him. 

______________________________________________

“You’re a goddamn fool, Keith Kogane,” Pidge said.

Keith who’d been minding his own business at the espresso machine, glared over at her. “What do you mean? And do you _ever_ actually work?”

Ignoring that last jab, Pidge sucked back the last of her iced latte and laughed. “Wow. You don’t know how much he’s changed you.”

“Who’s _he?”_

“I’m _talking_ about you and Lance.”

“And I already told you, shrimp, there’s nothing between us.”

Pidge snorted. “Wow, defensive much? I meant something else.” She swung her legs over the arm of her chair. “I was gonna say that Lance has been having a big impact on your life. That’s all.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith replied, “I haven’t changed that much, Pidge.”

“But you have, honey,” Pidge sing-songed, twirling a lock of caramel hair around her finger. “You’re more open and friendly to customers. Compared to when you first started here, you’re almost chatty. You smile and laugh more.”

Keith bit his lip and stared into the glistening black dregs of his coffee. He knew that Lance’s presence _did_ make him feel more at ease, but he hadn’t realized that others had noticed. “Huh.”

“Mm. Platonic babies, remember? You and Lance fit like a glove. I think you two are really good for each other—even if it’s not in a romantic way.”

Keith flashed her a hesitant smile. “Thanks, Pidge. That’s, uh, unusually sweet of you.” He walked around the counter and headed towards the aisles, intent on moving into the more crowded front area to help customers.

Gasping dramatically, Pidge flung a hand over her eyes. _“Moi?_ When am I never sweet? I’m a angel, Kogane. Ava thinks so, at least.”

“Well,” Keith said, ruffling her hair as he strode past, “Ava is blinded by love. She doesn’t see you for the gremlin girl you are.”

Pidge scoffed. “Asshole. I take back what I said!”

“Too late,” Keith called back to her, grinning.

As he took another step forward, a blur of sound and colour flickered at the corner of his eye, and a split second after, he collided with someone, sending them sprawling to the floor.

“Hey, what the _f_ —oh, hi, Keith!”

Nyma bounced to her feet faster than Keith could extend his hand to help her up. Decked out in a rainbow-striped crop top and grease-smeared baggy jeans, bangles jingling around her wrists, she looked quite out of place in Open Book’s serene, somewhat more _mature_ environment. Yeah, if the store wasn’t packed with college-age hipsters, it was populated with sixty-somethings sporting gaudy handbags and thick glasses. Poor Allura had been on the receiving end of too many hard-of-hearing grannies who shouted at her for book recommendations.

“Hey, Nyma. Here to see Allura?”

Nyma winked. “You betcha. Once her turn at the cash register ends, I’m taking her out on a surprise date to get her away from the oldies for a while. Gotta talk to Hunk first, though. Top secret stuff.” She flipped her braids over one shoulder. “Oh, wait, where’s Lance?”

“Um...at his shop? I guess. I don’t know.”

“Oh!” Nyma shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. It’s just that you guys are always together, so I assumed—uh—”

“We’re not dating, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, no, of course you’re not. Keith Kogane, token heterosexual, right?” Nyma teased. “I kid, I kid. Must be pretty weird, having all your friends be gay.”

“Um.” Keith ran a hand through his bangs. “Can we, ah, talk about something else?”

Her mouth forming a surprised “o,” Nyma nodded. “Sorry. Are you trying to figure yourself out?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Mm. Well, don’t worry about it too much, okay? It took me forever to come out to myself. And lemme tell you, realizing I was both gay _and_ a girl at the tender age of sixteen was quite a shock. It’s normal to feel that way.”

Palms sweating, Keith only nodded. “Uh, have a good time. With Allura,” he managed, then waved and hurried away.

Nyma’s confused response of, “Okay? Bye then,” followed him out the door. 

Only halfway down the block did Keith realize Nyma hadn't referred to Lance as straight.

______________________________________________

“This,” Lance whined, setting down a crate of daffodils, _“sucks.”_

Keith bumped into him, smearing dirt onto the back of Lance’s t-shirt. “This is your job, buddy.”

Flopping back onto the front step of In Bloom, Lance let out a long groan. “But it’s too _hot_ to do my job. I want a popsicle.” He shook out his shirt, bits of soil tumbling onto the sidewalk as he did so. 

Keith set the begonia pots on the nearest wire shelf and frowned down at him. “How old are you again? I’m doing most of the work here.”

“You’re right,” Lance drawled, the corner of his mouth curving up. “Maybe I should steal you away from Allura and have you work for me.”

“I’m a luxury only a select few can afford,” Keith replied sarcastically.

Lance’s grin blossomed in earnest. “Can I pay you in flowers, instead? Here—” he reached down to a crack in the sidewalk that Keith hadn’t noticed before. Running parallel to his shoes, a few strands of brown grass peeked out, along with a shriveled dandelion. Lance plucked the bloom out of the crack and held it up to Keith’s nose. _“Pour vous._ Means ‘for you’ in French.” He batted his eyelashes. “See? Can Allura speak English, French _and_ Spanish? I think not.”

Keith snorted. “I’m flattered, but I prefer money over, ah, weeds. Also Allura knows at least six languages, so don’t try her.”

Pouting, Lance tucked the dandelion into his jeans pocket. “Damn. Shot down.” He climbed to his feet, wiping away an imaginary tear. “Wanna come do some more free labor? There’s cacti in the back that needs to be put on the shelves. Oh! And speaking of shelves, the one by the garden fountain needs repainting.”

“Guess you got over that rejection pretty quickly,” Keith replied, smirking. “And you do have to pay me—if not in money, preferably Shay’s cinnamon biscotti.”

Lance saluted. “Deal.” He stepped past Keith and went inside, calling from over his shoulder, “I still don’t get it. I give you flowers, read you romantic poetry, have strikingly good looks...what else do you need?”

Keith rolled his eyes and followed him in, pushing past. “Cash, sweetheart.”

Lance, who was ticking off his best qualities on his fingers, paused and spun on his heel to face Keith.

“Don’t have a lot of that. But I do know every word _and_ the entire dance to Love on Top by Beyoncé.” He posed. “I’m everyone’s dream boyfriend-slash-employer.”

“Not mine,” Keith scoffed. He headed towards the back, where the cacti lay waiting, and tuned Lance’s indignant spluttering out. He made sure not to step on any overgrown plants; last week he’d accidentally crushed a massive zinnia and Lance had been so heartbroken, Keith had offered to give it a burial.

In the back room, on the counter opposite from the pottery wheel was a stack of trays, filled with tiny cacti and plants Lance called “succulents.” Keith stood on his toes and gingerly slid the top three into his arms.

“Hey,” Lance called suddenly, sticking his sneaker through the bead curtain and waving it around. “Wanna see something cool?”

Keith batted Lance’s foot away with his own as he walked out. “What?”

Lance was kneeling by the curtain, a box at his feet. _Recuerdo_ was written on it in bold blue letters. He was clutching a piece of lined paper, wrinkled from age, and his eyes were glittering joyfully. “Did you see that plaque on the wall by the gardenias? The one that’s like ‘perhaps the roses really want to grow’?”

“Yeah. It’s a nice quote.” Keith squinted at the page. It had been scribbled on in cursive, most of it incomprehensible, but he caught glimpses of both Spanish and English words.

“It’s from _If I Could Tell You_ by W.H. Auden. My family has loved that poem for years and years. Back in Cuba, we went to, um, kind of like, open mic nights? That’s what they’re called, right? At local cafés all the time. And once, when I was about eighteen, this little old woman got up onstage and read it out in both Spanish and English, and after she was done my mama turned to me and said, ‘Lance, wasn’t that beautiful? You should get a copy of it and read it every night when you go off to America, and that way you’ll be reminded of us and how much we miss you.’”

Keith made an sympathetic noise at the back of his throat.

“And we all began quoting it around the house after that, when saying goodbye and stuff. It really stuck with us.” Lance’s bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, but he set his jaw and continued. “I found it in here—it’s my ‘memories from home’ box that I forgot to unpack. Anyway, I wanted to read it to you. It really is amazing. Can I?”

“Sure.” Keith set down the tray of cacti and slid down the back wall to sit next to him.

Lance cleared his throat and, without even looking at the page, began.

 _“Time will say nothing but I told you so,”_ he murmured. _“Time only knows the price we have to pay; if I could tell you I would let you know.”_ He glanced over at Keith as if seeking reassurance. Keith nodded, and cracked a smile, mouthing, _Go ahead._

_“If we should weep when clowns put on their show, if we should stumble when musicians play, time will say nothing but I told you so. There are no fortunes to be told, although, because I love you more than I can say—”_ Lance’s voice wavered. _“If I could tell you I would let you know.”_

 _Oh, no,_ Keith thought, overwhelmed by a strange sense of—of—he didn’t know. It was a little like homesickness, like the ache in his heart he’d had every day since his parents’ funeral.

_“The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, there must be reason why the leaves decay; time will say nothing but I told you so. Perhaps the roses really want to grow, the vision seriously intends to stay; if I could tell you I would let you know.”_

Lance paused suddenly, and breathed out, a long, shuddering sound. “Sorry,” he explained. “This is, um, really getting to me.”

Wordlessly, Keith put a hand on his arm. Lance blinked back a few tears, then took another breath and continued. _“Suppose the lions all get up and go.”_ His voice was barely a whisper. _“And the brooks and soldiers run away; will Time say nothing but I told you so?”_

Keith closed his eyes.

 _“If I could tell you I would let you know,”_ Lance finished, and buried his face in his knees. He tried to muffle a sob, but the shaking of his shoulders gave him away.

Keith waited for him, silent and patient—as he always had, as he always would.

“If it’s any consolation,” he said finally, fingertips brushing the feathery ends of Lance’s undercut, “that was really beautiful.”

Lance stared up at him, eyes wide and watery. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a good voice for this kind of thing.”

Bottom lip trembling, Lance scrubbed at his tear-blotchy face. “Thanks. And sorry for being such an emotional mess lately. It’s just—I miss my family. And—” he stopped, glancing away. “Never mind.”

This time, Keith was the one to pull Lance in close, to wrap his arms around Lance’s neck and let tears drip onto his shirt and pointedly ignore the way Lance’s hands felt pressed against his chest, warm and grounding.

Lance smelled like cinnamon gum and soil. It was comforting. A little island of familiarity for Keith to cling to.

“We’re going to be fine,” Keith murmured, because he knew he wasn’t good with words but maybe if he said it enough, both him and Lance would believe it.  


______________________________________________

**hunka hunka burnin love:** _Hey! I noticed you’ve been having kind of a rough week, so I was wondering if you wanted to come to that club Allura likes down near Altea Road tonight? Me, Shay, Allura, Nyma, Pidge, and Ava are going, and Shiro and Matt might be too. How does 9:00 sound?_  
**hunka hunka burnin love:** _I asked Lance if he wanted to come along, too :)_  
**greasy zuko:** _sounds good. i can pick lance up if you want and meet you guys there?_  
**hunka hunka burnin love:** _Awesome!!! See you then!!_

Keith put down his phone and sighed. That was stupid of him. He didn’t have anything nice to wear, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to go clubbing. 

_Do it for Hunk,_ he told himself, and rolled off his mattress to search around for passably good clothes. Eventually, he decided on a black shirt and matching jeans, and fussed with his hair for a couple minutes in front of the hall mirror before shoving it into a ponytail and dashing out the door. 

He reached In Bloom at eight-thirty. Lance was waiting for him at the curb, one leg already slung over his motorbike. The bronze rose studs were back in his ears, and his clothes were unfairly tight, from his white tank top to his ripped pants— _oh God, were those leather?_

“Hop on,” he called, grinning from ear to ear.

“Uh, no? You’re gonna be drinking. I’m not planning on dying on the way home tonight, Lance.”

Lance pouted, but finally surrendered and dragged his bike back to the garage behind the shop. 

The walk to the club was only around twenty minutes, but they barely talked, which made it feel like an eternity. Lance kept pulling out his phone every few seconds to check the time, and Keith could almost taste the strange, _charged_ sensation in the air. It was an unpleasant, itchy feeling—one, Keith realized, he’d never really felt around Lance before. Something was wrong.

However, before he could put his finger on what, the mood evaporated as they came to a stop outside The Palace. Allura’s favorite nightclub was pink and black and white all over, neon signs hanging in the windows and a pulsating beat that rattled in Keith’s chest sneaking out from beneath the front door. 

Lance was grinning ear to ear. “Welcome to your first clubbing experience!”

“Uh,” Keith replied, staring up at the intimidating building. “Allura invited me here once before. I took one look inside and ran off.”

“Well, you’ve got me,” Lance sighed. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Let’s go get a drink! Baby steps.”

He flung the front door open. Bright light and earsplitting music spilled out.

“Enter,” Lance intoned dramatically, bowing as Keith cautiously passed him.

Inside, the club was surprisingly not as awful as Keith had predicted. It was incredibly loud, yes, and bright, and _hot,_ but seeing his friends’ faces light up as they watched him walk in made it worthwhile. Allura, Nyma, Shay, and Hunk smothered him with hugs, Shiro and Matt gave him a thumbs-up, and even a clearly intoxicated-out-of-her-mind Pidge managed to wave at him, Ava’s lipstick smeared at the corner of her mouth. 

And Lance, with his hand gentle between Keith’s shoulder blades, made him feel like he belonged here.

Keith drew the line at dancing, though, and retreated to the bar, where he pooled all his change for a couple shots. Occasionally, he’d glance back out at the crowd of bodies, grinding and jumping and dazzling underneath the multicolored lighting, and catch a glimpse of his friends. 

There was Hunk, attempting to waltz in a circle with Shay and Matt. There was Shiro, stealing Allura away for a slow dance (“Best friends before boyfriends and girlfriends!” he’d shouted, twirling Allura around in the middle of the floor). There were Nyma and Ava trying to have a dance-off with Lance; he was losing horribly, but he did so cheerfully, singing along to the music.

And the _kissing._ Pidge and Ava, clutching at each other like high-schoolers, Shiro and Matt, quick on the cheek every time they passed. Allura and Nyma; a lot of it, and unfortunately very _loud,_ Hunk and Shay; so sweet and gentle Keith’s teeth started to hurt. 

Only Lance never kissed anyone. Maybe a friendly peck on Hunk’s forehead or a brushing of lips to Allura’s knuckles before he swung her in a circle, but he looked a little lonely, even in the enormous crowd.

Keith ordered another shot, forgetting the dwindling amount of bills in his wallet. _Patience, Kogane._

A little while later, someone staggered up to him and threw their arm around his neck.

“Hey,” Lance slurred in his ear, warm and breathless. “Hey, Keeeeith.”

Keith drained his glass, the tequila burning all the way down his throat.. “Hi, Lance. How many drinks have you had?”

Lance pretended to think, stroking an imaginary beard. “Hmmmm. More than I can count on one hand. Or two hands. I forget.”

Shaking his head, Keith patted Lance on the back. “No more, okay? I don’t wanna drag your drunk ass home.”

Lance pouted and dipped his chin pleadingly. “One more shot?”

“Negative.”

 _“Fine,_ Jesus,” Lance sniffed. “Wanna dance?”

Keith looked up. Lance raised an eyebrow and, gesturing as if he were a nobleman in some period drama, extended his hand with a flourish. He was lit up around the edges, flickering blue-red-green-white-pink until the light became too brilliant for Keith to make out the delicate features of his face. He remembered Allura’s birthday party, and the way he’d held his palm out to Lance as they stood at the edge of the dance floor.

“Okay.”

Lance’s answering smile was all he wanted.

Of course Keith had danced before. At Allura’s birthday, a couple college parties—that he’d abandoned pretty quickly—but this. This was different. There was no space between him and anyone else, just a sea of flailing arms and legs and sweat. He had no idea what to do. He cast his gaze helplessly over to Lance, who rolled his eyes playfully. 

“Come on, man,” Lance shouted. “Everyone’s got rhythm. Use it! Use your body!”

“Show me,” Keith blurted, feeling uncharacteristically brave. Maybe the tequila was stronger than he’d thought. 

It was probably the light, but he swore he saw Lance blush. “All right. How can I deny you?” 

And then he was on Keith, like, _pressing into him from behind,_ grinding right up against him and Keith thought, _This is it. This is how I die. Goodbye, Keith Kogane’s formerly functional brain cells, it was nice knowing you._

“Move with me,” Lance instructed. “Do something with your arms. There, that’s it.”

Keith’s mind felt fuzzy. Fucking tequila. Making him do stupid shit he didn’t want— 

Then he whirled around and put his arms around Lance’s neck, and did something he’d only seen in a movie before; he slid one hand down Lance’s right thigh and pulled it up towards his waist. 

Lance froze. 

Keith’s knee was nudging Lance's legs apart so that he had to cling to Keith's shoulders to keep balance, and their hips were only inches away from each other. Every nerve in Keith’s body stood on end. He could hear Lance’s heartbeat. 

Eyes widening, Lance’s jaw dropped. _“Dude.”_

“What?” Keith let go, the heat of Lance’s thigh still burning into his palm.

“That was awesome! Why didn’t you tell me you could dance like that?”

Keith bit his lip. “I didn’t know.”

Shaking his head, Lance laughed. “Jeez, that was—something. No, that was _hot!_ Nice!”

Now it was Keith’s turn to freeze.

 _Lance thinks I’m hot._

_Lance thinks I’m hot._

_Me._

“You think I’m hot,” he echoed numbly. 

But Lance wasn’t listening; he was already stumbling off towards the bar. Keith followed him, the words still replaying in his brain.

“All righty,” Lance mumbled, draping himself clumsily in the closest chair he could find. “I’m gonna try to find someone else to dance with in a little bit. Doubt anyone would compare to you, though, after that trick you pulled. Can I try some pick...um...what’s the word—”

“Pick-up lines,” Keith supplied, and ordered a beer. _Lance thinks I’m hot._

“Mm, that’s it. How about this?” Lance cleared his throat dramatically. One strap of his tank top was falling off his shoulder, and Keith resisted the urge to fix it. “Hey, baby, are you from Tennessee? Cause you’re the only ten I see!”

Keith gave him a thumbs-down. “Overused. And corny.”

Frowning, Lance tapped his chin. “I don’t remember any others. Oh! What about ‘are you wearing space pants! ‘Cause your ass is out of this world!”

“Oh, yeah. Very effective,” Keith deadpanned, tracing the rim of his glass. “You could pick up a ton of girls like that.”

Lance said something else, but it was drowned out by the thumping electronic beat. 

“What?”

Leaning in closer— _and closer and closer and oh, God, his lips were touching Keith’s ear_ —Lance whispered, “No.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“I mean what I say,” Lance replied, and Keith felt his mouth curve into a knowing smile, the corner just brushing along Keith’s cheekbone. “No, as in not just girls.” 

_Oh._

Keith’s heart dropped instantly, a stone settling around his navel.

“Not just girls,” he repeated.

Lance laughed and bent forward until his forehead landed on Keith’s shoulder. “Nope.” His breath was hot and vodka-scented against the fabric of Keith’s t-shirt.

Tilting his head back to stare at the flashing club lights, Keith tried very hard not to pass out.

_Lance thinks I’m hot. And he doesn’t just like girls. This is fine._

“Hey,” Lance murmured, interrupting Keith’s futile attempt at not hyperventilating. “Can yooooou take me home?”

_“What.”_

“I can’t walk right by myself and I-I need to, uh, make sure the store’s okay.”

“Oh, right. Sure. I thought you meant—Never mind.”

Lance gazed up at him with alcohol-glazed eyes and grinned. “You’re a prince, Keith Kogane. _Gracias,_ and all that.”

Half an hour later, Keith was deeply regretting his decision. Actually, he was regretting every decision he’d ever made, because somehow it led to him dragging the man who made him feel fucking _weird_ halfway across town because cabs weren’t exactly omnipresent there and said man weighed a hell of a lot more when he was smashed and could barely move his feet.

“Lance,” Keith huffed, hiking Lance’s elbow tighter around his neck. “If you want to break my goddamn spine, please do it another time. I’d like to get home before the sun comes up.”

“Ugh argh wargh,” Lance replied, loud enough to wake a few pigeons sleeping atop a nearby store awning. 

“Thanks for your input.”

“Mm.”

Finally, in the distance, Keith saw In Bloom’s shop window, the nearby streetlight’s glow spilling over its front step like a beacon of hope. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Almost there.”

“Mmm, bedtime,” Lance hummed, then broke loudly into song—which was quickly shut down by Keith’s well-placed palm. They staggered down the last couple blocks in silence.

As they came to a halt in front of the shop, he patted Keith’s shoulder. “‘M good. Think I can walk up to my room without tripping and breaking my neck. Thanks, prince.”

“You’re welcome, nerd.” Keith let go of him and rolled his neck from side to side, wincing at the stiff pain.

Lance laughed at that, but it wasn’t really _his_ laugh. It was more like a bruised lung trying to exhale. A ghost of what could have been. He hopped up onto the step, knocking into an empty wire table as he rifled through his pockets for his keys.

“Night,” he murmured, then suddenly paused and turned to face Keith.

The step gave him just enough height that Keith had to look up to meet his gaze. A breeze swept his hair up off his forehead, teal color flickering in and out of view, and harsh light threw all his angles into relief. The delicate features of his face were drawn into shadow, and it was impossible to read his expression. 

He looked nothing like the Lance that Keith had come to know—he was sharp and haunting and almost alien.

For a wild, stupid moment, Keith wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

Lance reached out and pressed his fingertips to the side of Keith’s throat, then slid his hand further until it was wrapped around the back of his neck. He tipped his head forward just a little bit, so that Keith could watch his eyes glitter with unspoken meaning.

 _Oh,_ thought Keith. _Oh._

_So this is what it’s like._

Lance’s eyes were soft and his mouth was too close and Keith wanted him—he did, this was wanting, he finally knew—so much it _hurt._

“‘Night,” he replied, and gently pushed Lance towards the door.

Keith walked away in silence, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder, trying to ignore the small blossom of hope inside him that wanted Lance to come running after him, with his breathy laughter and blue _blue_ eyes and—and— 

He shook his head. Who was he kidding? 

Before Lance, he’d always greeted loneliness like an old friend. Now, it was a curse.

Keith tilted his head back and stared up at the midnight sky, feeling tiny and hopeless beneath it.

_What do I do now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**dandelion:** faithfulness, happiness. _
> 
>  
> 
> chapter title from _400 lux_ by lorde.
> 
> 1) I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK LITERALLY OVER A MONTH but i had awful writer's block and the DepressionTM was hitting me hard but hopefully i'll be posting more regularly from now on!  
> 2) again, please don't hesitate to leave comments! both compliments and constructive crit are appreciated!  
> 3) lmao what is chapter length consistency...idk her  
> 4) i want nyma to kiss me


	6. traced your shadows on the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a little bit of homophobic language + mentions of depression and suicide. also some vaguely nsfw content ;)

“I,” said Lance, ripping a bruised petal off the stem of a daylily, “am tired of this.”

Keith looked up from his position on the floor, where he was wrestling with a cactus—shoving it into a bag could damage the paint Lance had lovingly brushed onto it, but wrapping it made the spikes puncture the paper. He was stuck. “Tired of what?”

 _“Work,_ ” Lance moaned, laying his head on the backroom table. “Let’s go upstairs, I wanna show you more poetry. My mom sent me a Neruda collection and I haven’t looked at it yet.” 

“Mm. Sure. Just wait until I finish with these stupid cacti— _fuck that hurts.”_ Keith jammed his thumb into his mouth and glared down at the offending plant. “Just talk to me for a few minutes.”

“About what?” Lance grinned. “Not much interesting has happened around here lately.”

“Well, I told you about my life when we did that twenty questions thing. Tell me something about yourself. That you’ve never told anyone else.”

The room was silent, dreadfully so. Lance’s voice sounded like a gunshot.

“I tried to kill myself when I was sixteen,” he said, quiet but matter-of-fact. 

Keith’s mind immediately jumped to _apologize,_ but his throat wouldn’t let him speak. 

Lance tied a polka-dot ribbon around a few orchid stems, then turned to pull out the wrapping paper, its cheerful sunflower pattern incongruous with the situation. 

Choking on everything he wanted to say, Keith only stared as Lance continued.

“There you go. A secret. I don’t want you to go crying on me, though, Keith. It’s fine. I’m okay now.” He sighed. “There was just a long period of time where, um, I wasn’t.” 

“Why?” Keith stood up, fear crawling into his heart. He felt the unexpected urge to protect Lance—but from what, he wasn’t sure. 

Frowning, Lance put down his scissors. “Keith, I’m serious. I don’t want to pull out a sob story on you—”

 _“Hey.”_ Instinctively, Keith reached across the table and covered Lance’s hand with his own. “You let me open up to you. And you _know_ me, don’t you? Do you really think I’d judge you for this?”

Lance chewed his lip. “You’re right. Okay.” He sat down hesitantly. After rescuing some zinnias on the verge of falling onto the floor, Keith joined him. Lance was picking at the skin around his nails, evidently nervous.

“Don’t worry. If you ever want to stop, just tell me.”

Lance gave him a shaky smile, then cleared his throat. 

“I was, uh, a weird kid. I was loud and obnoxious as all hell, always asking stupid questions and purposely being gross to freak people out. Y’know, the type to finger-paint the walls of my house and blame it on my dog. I had the toughest shell, though—no bullying could ever really get to me.” Lance grinned a little, remembering.

“And then I went into high school. My parents knew I was way smarter than I let on, so they scraped together enough money to send me to a school for ‘gifted kids’. It was full of rich white teenagers whose families pay big bucks to live in Cuba for half a year just ‘cause they can’t handle the cold. No place for a skinny, awkward, working-class brown kid like me. Anyway, I tried making friends, tried to come off as the class clown, but that didn’t work. I was totally lost. I felt like an alien in my own home.”

Lance’s tone had changed; he sounded sharper, almost bitter. “And I can’t piece together all the things that happened after that, but suddenly I was fifteen and hardly sleeping and thinking about the boy in my science class who called me a faggot and how green his eyes were, and then I could barely focus or eat or even get out of bed. I felt empty. That—that was the worst. Have you ever felt that, Keith? Like your insides are numb? And nothing matters, not even you.” He drummed his fingers against his thighs, a seemingly careless gesture, but it was easy to tell he was trembling.

Keith pictured the two of them as different sides of a coin. Himself lit from the inside by flames, every bit red and furious, and Lance unmoving, his eyes downcast, looking as if he’d be cold to the touch. Him feeling too much, Lance not feeling enough.

“So this just _happened_ and I pretended it didn’t. For almost a year. And then my father found me—” Lance’s face scrunched up as if he were trying not to cry. “I had locked the bathroom door. He broke it open and found me with a handful of pills down my throat.”

Without thinking about it, Keith sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. Here was Lance with his heart in his open palms, the most vulnerable Keith had ever seen him, and he didn’t know how to react. 

Lance let out a deep breath, blowing his bangs off his forehead. “And the rest is history, I guess. I stayed in the hospital for a few months to recover, got diagnosed with clinical depression, y’know. My family was surprisingly down-to-earth about it, which is pretty uncommon. We’re kind of a dramatic bunch. Never looked at me like I was dangerous or an invalid or anything, which was nice. I somehow made it through the rest of high school without actually killing myself, and then I came to America for uni, and better therapy. A change of scenery. It’s done me good, I think.”

Stricken, Keith could only nod. 

“And that’s why little things matter to me so much now—the sunsets on Aspen Ridge, and my plants, or dancing with friends. Even just a really good song. They remind me that there’s stuff to live for. Oh, _Christ,_ that sounds corny.” Lance scuffed the toe of his shoe along the floor. 

Swallowing hard, Keith managed to answer. “No. No, it doesn’t. You’re—that was really—it’s good that you got that off your shoulders.” 

“Mm, well. We sure are a fucked up duo,” Lance sighed. He let another bruised-lung laugh, and patted Keith on the back. “But hey, this is cathartic, right? Like group therapy. We should make friendship bracelets next.”

On impulse, Keith reached out and turned Lance’s face towards him, cupping his jaw in his hands. He leaned in, the two of them locking gazes _(definitely the sky after a storm,_ Keith thought, _not green enough for the sea)._ “For sure.” _Thank you for telling me._

Lance smiled, a real one this time, the nicest thing Keith had seen all day. “You know, you’re a charmer, Keith Kogane. I see it in your eyes.”

“Well,” Keith replied, a grin tugging at his lips, “I learned from the best—you.” 

He knew he wasn’t imagining the warmth rushing to Lance’s cheeks.

______________________________________________

The blankets were suffocating, and even kicking them off didn’t help. He was completely stuck in the airless heat. The only thing he could do was lie as still as possible and count the beads of sweat trickling down his neck.

Keith groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Waited for sleep to come.

It didn’t. 

He flopped onto his stomach.

Warm skin under his hands, eyes deep and blue and unreadable. The shaky glimpse of a smile— 

_Stop it,_ he told himself. _It’s just Lance._

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was just Lance, and that made it all the more awful. Lance was loud and overbearing and always a little too close for comfort, always bumping shoulders or running his hand over the back of yours. Always letting you know he was there. His presence overflowed every room he stepped into. 

And Keith was so _good_ at pretending like he didn’t care, pretending like he was looking at Lance’s cheek or chin or forehead—safe spots, not like the scattering of freckles across his upturned nose or the bubbling laugh that brought sunshine or the crooked pink curve of his lips. He’d become so used to it that he’d convinced himself he didn’t notice the rest.

Lance with his eyelashes fluttering in sleep, the gentleness of his touch and cinnamon gum scent, the lithe way he moved and the light in his gaze despite all his pain and the feel of his fingers against Keith’s throat— 

_Fuck._

The last thing he wanted to do was acknowledge it, but he knew, he knew by the ache and the warmth and the helpless sigh he forgot to stifle. He hadn’t let himself feel anything like this since the night Lance dipped his head and softened his mouth and looked for all the world like he was going to kiss Keith, who had told himself time and time again he didn’t deserve it.

“This is bullshit,” Keith muttered, but his hips shuddered against the mattress on impulse, a tiny moan escaping him. _Christ,_ he was hard now, in a way he’d never been before, and hating himself for even considering—for even thinking about considering—

 _No,_ he insisted. _Nothing’s going to come of this._ But it was too late for anything else; the need had swallowed him whole and so Keith shut his eyes and pushed his sweatpants down around his thighs and forgot about how stupid, how wrong this whole thing was.

 _No,_ he’d repeat to himself later, sweaty and flushed and angry in his moonlit bathroom, crumpled tissues in his fist, _no._

______________________________________________

“Hi, this is Allura from Open Book. How may I help you?”

Keith put down the stack of romance novels and tuned in. He hated to eavesdrop, but he was worried about Allura. She’d been looking more and more frazzled lately, her bright gaze glassy and gentle smile forced. The day before, she nearly started crying while dealing with a difficult customer, and had to get Hunk to take over while she ran to the break room to compose herself. 

“Yes, we are. Oh. Okay. _Oh.”_

Her tone had changed entirely; swinging from businesslike to tiny, barely a whisper. She sounded completely crushed. Keith peeked over the shelf. 

Allura was biting her lip, running her free hand through her hair over and over. Her eyes glittered unmistakably, and there was a significant tremble in her voice as she answered, “Okay. I’ll call you again later. T-thank you.”

She’d only just placed the phone back on the hook when Keith arrived at her side. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

And Allura—strong, brave, unfailingly cheerful Allura, who’d done everything she could to help him, who deserved the sun and moon and stars—took one look at him and burst into tears. 

Keith didn’t push it, just put his arms around her and let them sink to the floor behind the counter. He whipped out his phone and texted Pidge: _get everyone out of the store ASAP._ Moments later, over Allura’s sobs, he heard a familiar voice calling, “Sorry everyone! Emergency closing! Please make your way out carefully and have a nice day!”

Making a mental note to thank Pidge after this was over, Keith patted Allura on the back. She lifted her head. Eyes puffy, cheeks wet, she gasped for air as she tried to explain. 

“Wait,” Keith said, and stood up. The last couple customers were ambling out the door in confusion, Pidge hot on their heels. “Pidge, get over here!”

The small girl’s expression was unusually serious as she made her way to the counter, and it quickly turned to horror when she saw Allura’s state. “What—”

“Get the others,” Keith ordered. “Something’s wrong.” 

Pidge nodded and dashed away, too shaken to even reply.

Kneeling back down, Keith pushed the hair away from Allura’s forehead. “Okay. Don’t worry. Take deep breaths, okay?”

Allura let out a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry you had to see this, Keith.” She bit her lip and twisted her fingers into her skirt. “It’s just—I don’t—”

“Allura!” 

Coran all but leapt over the counter, and there was such real fear on his face Keith felt his own heart begin to ache. He pushed Keith aside and threw his arms around Allura, who buried her face into his shoulder.

Hunk appeared moments later, cradling his right hand gently. He’d been making tea when Pidge had found him, and in his surprise, he’d spilled the hot water all over his fingers. Gaze bright with worry, he crouched by Coran’s side and ran his hand through Allura’s hair. “Is there anything we can do?”

Pulling away a little, Allura shook her head and scrubbed at her face. “I’m so sorry for being like this. I don’t know what’s happening to me.” She laughed half-heartedly.

“No, no,” Keith said firmly. “Don’t apologize for how you feel.”

“Yeah,” Pidge murmured. “You’ve been really strong ever since I met you. It’s okay. We aren’t gonna judge you.”

Allura looked over at her uncle. Coran smiled, reassuring, and Allura cast her gaze back to the ground.

“I, um, just got a call from our proprietor,” she began. “Essentially, the amount of customers we get daily has gone down dramatically in the past couple months, and we’re not making nearly enough money to rent this place.”

Keith’s heart dropped to somewhere around his stomach. Looking around, he could tell that everyone else was feeling the same way.

Sighing shakily, Allura delivered the final blow. “We might have to close down.”

______________________________________________

“The meeting to save Open Book will now come into session,” Pidge announced, rapping her knuckles against the breakroom table. Keith snickered, and she glared at him. 

“Thanks, Pidge,” Allura said in an effort to placate her. Pidge nodded graciously, cheeks a little pink—maybe her old crush hadn’t completely died yet.

“All right,” Coran coughed from his perch at the end. He pulled out a notepad. “Ideas to keep us in business.”

It was entirely silent as the five of them thought.

“I got nothing,” Pidge sighed after a couple minutes, and laid her head on her arm.

Hunk bit at a fingernail. “Me either.”

“Oh! What if we put more of an emphasis on the cafe part?” Allura’s eyes brightened a bit. “We can make a separate sign for coffee! And lower the price a touch? And we could see if Shay’s willing to bake things for the pastry case.”

“Excellent!” Coran scribbled them down. “Anything else?”

“A book sale?” Hunk drummed his palms against the table. “Maybe in a couple weeks. We can put stuff right out onto the sidewalk to attract attention. Kids’ books for three dollars, adult’s for five, that kind of thing.” Nodding emphatically, Coran wrote it beneath Allura’s suggestions.

“I have a couple ideas,” Keith offered nervously.

All heads turned towards him in surprise. 

“What? I can think, too.” 

“Please,” Allura said. “Go ahead.”

“We try to spruce this place up. Repaint the sign, the shelves, decorate it a little more. Maybe put in a reading space, or order some newer books. Get more of those fairy lights. If we make Open Book feel like home, people will be drawn to it.”

Hunk flashed him a thumbs-up. “Way to go, Keith!” Allura smiled, quietly proud.

Shoving her glasses up, Pidge frowned. “But how are we gonna get the money for paint?” 

“And how do we decorate?” Coran added.

Keith grinned at them. “I think I know a guy.”

______________________________________________

That night, Keith sat in his tiny bathroom, watching the moonlight streaming through his open window dance over the cold tiles. He hadn’t checked the time in forever—it might’ve been hours since he came home.

What was he doing here?

Breathing didn’t seem like a natural thing anymore. Just an afterthought. 

His heartbeat thudded in his ears.

He thought about Hunk and Pidge’s giggly conversations, punctuated with jokes he didn’t really understand. Nyma and Allura’s fingers linked together. Shiro grinning at Matt like there was no one else in the world. Pidge kissing Ava so _casually,_ surrounded by flashing lights. Lance’s brilliant grin as he leaned in and whispered— 

Keith closed his eyes. “This is stupid.”

 _Just say it. Say it and you’ll feel better,_ whispered the little voice at the back of his mind.

_But what if I’m—I’m not? What if I’m just lying to myself?_

_So what if you’re not?_ The voice taunted. _Then you’re not. But at least you thought about it, instead of wasting time fighting it away—_

Keith clenched his fists and looked down at his sneakers.

 _It’s just you,_ his mind continued, more gently. _Why do you hate you?_

_Oh._

“I don’t,” he murmured. “Not really.”

And then he looked up at himself in the mirror and forgot about everything else, all the words spat to his face for years, all the anger crawling inside him, and watched his mouth open to let two small words escape.

“I’m gay,” Keith said. It wasn’t the end of the world. 

It was a brick lifted off his back. It was an echo against the soft yellow walls.

It was tiny and whispery and joyful and _true._

(There are fewer things in the world more beautiful than the little truths we manage to tell ourselves.)

In the mirror, his mouth curved up. Keith touched his lips and found them smiling.

______________________________________________

“Hey, hey, it’s the bookstore savior!” Lance beamed when Keith entered In Bloom the next afternoon, arms smeared with pale violet paint, barista apron still hanging around his neck.

“That’s me,” Keith sighed. “Thanks for the paint, by the way.”

“You’ve said that so many times, I should keep a list.”

“Well, it has been a lifesaver. The store looks a lot prettier now. Oh, and do you have the flowers Coran ordered?”

“You bet. But first—” Lance reached under the counter and brought out a plastic-wrapped plate decorated with a polka-dot ribbon. “Ta-da! Shay’s famous cinnamon biscotti.”

“Holy shit.” Keith gazed at it lovingly. “You got this for me?”

Bouncing excitedly on his heels, Lance nodded. “Mm-hm. Said you wanted some in return for all the work you do for me, so.”

“Wow. But, y’know, why do you do—?” Keith gestured at the biscotti helplessly, catching the ribbon’s curl with his fingertip. “All this...this _stuff?_ For me? Like the paint and the presents and the motorcycle rides and the—” 

“It’s 'cause I’m in love with you.” 

The words, so casually spoken, felt to Keith like a punch in the gut. He let go of the ribbon.

Lance propped an elbow up on the counter and rested his chin on his palm, his unusually serious gaze locking with Keith’s. 

Keith stared down at him, a million thoughts running through his brain, colliding and dissipating— _he loves me he loves me am I dreaming_ and _oh god please yes tell him everything tell him how you feel_ and _no no no this is wrong this can’t be happening_ until the only thing he could bring himself to say was “What?”

The corner of Lance’s mouth twitched, and a second later, he burst out laughing.

“Your fucking face,” Lance giggled, burying his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with glee. “Shit—sorry, that was so uncool of me, but—” he reeled back, clutching the counter until his knuckles turned white. “I couldn’t resist.” He grinned at Keith, a weak attempt at apology.

“Um,” Keith replied, trying to look as if he wasn’t dying to scream or break things or—even worse—cry, because of course Lance was joking, and he was still completely untouchable, and the barrier between _what they had_ and _love_ was never going to fall. “Let’s just...go, okay? I need to set up before I crash from exhaustion.”

But Lance wasn’t listening anymore. He’d picked up a bouquet lying near the cash register. Frowning, he brushed his fingers gently across the petals, as if waiting for them to react, then glanced over as if he had only just understood what Keith had said. 

His eyes were clouded over with an emotion Keith knew well—anger, and then something he didn’t know. Something shadowy and fragile.

“Right. Yeah. I’m gonna go grab the stuff.” Lance tossed the blossoms under the counter, spun on his heel, and hurried into the back room. The bead curtain clacked viciously behind him, spinning wildly and reflecting sunlight across the shop’s walls.

Keith waited for a moment, pacing the floor a little, until a thought tugged at the back of his mind. 

_Why had Lance hidden those flowers?_

Squinting through the still-swinging strings of beads, Keith caught a glimpse of Lance’s back—his familiar broad shoulders and slouching posture. Without a second thought, Keith scrambled over the countertop. He landed on the other side with a quiet _thud._ Scanning the shelves beneath the counter frantically, he noticed the stems peeking out of a box filled with leaf trimmings.

He told himself _no, leave them alone. Please._ His instincts taunted _go for it, what’re you waiting for?_

It was strange, and stupid, but Keith had the feeling that the flowers meant more than he wanted them to.

He took them out anyway.

The blossoms were gorgeous, even for Lance’s standards, only slightly crumpled on one side where they were hastily stuffed away. Crimson and pink, their wide petals soft and unblemished. Keith had seen these before, when he first met Lance.

Lance had told him about them, how all flowers symbolized different things, but what did these mean? What were they called?

There was a tag strung through the ribbon tying the stems together. Keith recognized the handwriting on it right away—Lance’s messy, slanted scrawl. He moved a stray leaf, pulled the ribbon loose, took in the words— 

_For Keith, with everything._

The world collapsed around him and built itself back up again.

Pulse hammering through his veins, Keith read the inscription over and over. He flipped the tag around, searching for more writing, for an explanation, but found nothing. 

Only those four words. Four simple words that somehow made Keith feel like he’d been offered the entire fucking universe.

Was this another joke? Could Lance ever actually be that cruel? Or was this just meant to be a simple thank-you? 

_“It’s because I’m in love with you.”_

The flash of fury in Lance’s eyes when Keith hadn’t laughed— 

With _everything._

“Can you come help me with this?” Lance called from the back room, voice uneven and clearly frustrated. Keith froze on the spot. “You guys ordered so many, jeez.” 

“Sure,” Keith choked out, shoving the flowers back into the box. His fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

_Breathe. Stand up. Forget about it. Forget about all of this._

He tried to. He tried as he gathered up piles of tulips and half-ignored Lance’s uneasy, close presence—even when Lance was angry he still wouldn’t distance himself. He tried as he and Lance walked down those endless three blocks in tense silence, their arms weighed down with bouquets and biscotti. He tried as he unlocked the doors of Open Book and watched Lance carelessly toss what he had carried onto the front step.

The heavy scent of lilies hung in the air, sickening in the August evening’s heat.

Keith guessed he must made some sort of questioning noise, because Lance looked up at him. His gaze was steady and challenging, and it shook Keith down to his bones.

Lance bowed, a little sarcastic dip of the head, and hurried away without saying a word. 

Keith refused to watch him leave. Instead, he gathered up the abandoned displays and got to work. He unwrapped the tulips, the hyacinths, the daffodils— 

_For Keith._

He arranged them in the stained-glass vases Allura had left behind after closing, measured out water for each one, placed them around the shop. 

_For Keith._

Afterwards, he took out his phone and deleted Lance’s number. It was a childish move, but he didn’t care.

_For Keith._

He crawled behind the front counter and listened to his heart beating. It had started to rain.

_For Keith, with everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from _ginasfs_ by fall out boy. (sorry lmao)
> 
> yes, you guessed it: the flowers from lance are pink and red camellias. remember what they stand for? (hint: chapter 2). 
> 
> this is a holiday present update for u all! it's been so long AGAIN (it's the depression) but thankfully i'm on break for a lil while so keep an eye out for another chapter in 1-2 weeks!! thanks so much for ur love, sorry for the angst, and please feel free to leave comments....i thrive off them....


	7. talk out loud like you're still around

“Keith—hey, Keith. Earth to Keith. Snap out of it!” 

Keith dragged himself up and out of his stupor. The first thing he noticed was that his shin hurt terribly. The second thing was that Pidge was kicking it repeatedly. “Ow,” he mumbled, and she stopped to glare up at him.

“Allura asked you to man the register for a bit.”

“Yeah, and I said I’m going.”

“That was _five minutes ago,”_ Pidge groaned. “You’ve been zoning out this whole time. Wake up! In case you forgot, we’re swarming with customers.” She turned to sort out a box of picture books, muttering under her breath.

Keith sighed, and picked his way through the maze of tables—they took up almost half the block, and nearly spilled out into the road—to reach the cash register. Pidge had been right; it was crowded with people clutching at their books and pastries. The sale had only been running for an hour, but Keith was already completely exhausted. Coupled with the promise of free food from Shay’s bakery, the turnout had been way more than they’d expected; it seemed like everyone in the town had come to help out.

The smell of chocolate reached him, and he glanced wistfully towards the baked goods table. Hunk was beaming as he handed Matt Holt a glazed donut, and Shay was perched beside him, chatting to a couple of Shiro’s mechanics. A tray of cups filled with iced coffee sat in front of her. 

Keith’s stomach growled. He’d barely eaten since the Lance incident two days before. Oh, and of _course_ the midday sun was burning his eyes. He scowled at it, which made the problem worse.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, as if it were coming from far away. “How much is this?”

He blinked. A middle-aged man shoved a paperback beneath his nose. “I only have ten dollars on me.”

“Says on the spine. Five bucks. Can you read?”

The man huffed and slapped a bill onto the table. “No need to be rude. You’re lucky I’m even here to help your sorry business out.”

“If it’s so _sorry,”_ Keith snapped suddenly, “why don’t you just fuck off and leave us alone?” His skin prickled. The back of his neck felt like it was on fire, and it was too fucking _loud_ —all these people shouting and laughing and rifling through piles of books, and cars passing by, and it was too hot, too much—

He slammed the cash drawer shut. “I’m—” he tried to tell the confused crowd. A sea of eyes stared back at him _(too much, too much)._ “I need to—”

_Lance._

And he turned and fled back into the store, barely hearing the irritated cries of those left standing in line.

Somehow, he found himself crouched on the back alley steps, heart pounding viciously in his ears. Breath coming in tiny, tight gasps, like he was drowning. 

_God, Kogane,_ he thought, rocking his feet against the asphalt. _Why can’t you learn how to handle, like, anything?_

“Hey.” Hunk’s sandals appeared in his line of vision. “You okay?”

Keith dragged a hand over his face. “Uh...yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Hunk replied, sitting down beside him. He had a plate of pastries in one hand, and brandished it at Keith. “I know you had a falling out with Lance.”

“How—?”

“I’m his best friend.” Hunk wiggled his fingers in front of him. “I can sense it.” 

Keith scoffed and shoved a croissant in his mouth.

“Fine, fine, he told me yesterday. I bugged him for so long he gave in. I mean, what else could I have done? He was draped over the counter and looking like he wanted to die, so.”

“What did he say?”

Hunk shrugged. “He said exactly what I did. You had a falling out. Oh, and he threatened me with bodily harm if I tried to make him apologize to you. Then he got up and stumbled up to his apartment, and I haven’t seen him since—he won’t answer my texts.”

Keith rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Hunk smacked his arm. “Keith! What did you do to the poor guy?”

“I—I don’t know.” He knew. It made him sick.

“I’ll sic Pidge on you,” Hunk sing-songed, and pushed open the back door. “Hey, Pidge!”

 _Fuck,_ Keith thought, and choked on the rest of the croissant. He had to escape—but how? _Fuck,_ he thought again, finding no way out of it. _This sucks._

“Um,” he began, praying for a swift and merciful death, “Lance gave me flowers and biscotti and said he was in love with me which turned out to be a joke and I was freaked out by it and he got mad ‘cause of that and—”

“'Sup.” 

Keith winced. 

Pidge towered over him, precariously balancing a stack of comics and a tray filled with coffee cups in her arms. “What’s going on? I gotta go help Coran with crowd control. Hey—” her gaze flickered over Keith’s face. “What’s your problem?”

“Lance said he was in love with him,” Hunk told her, slowly, as if he were piecing it together as he spoke. “And Keith was, uh, weird about it.”

Cheeks hot, Keith ducked his head, preparing for the worst.

“What the _fuck,”_ Pidge exploded. She set down her things with a _thunk_ and stormed down the steps, coming to a halt in front of him. “Keith, look at me.” 

Keith did. 

As many times as he’d been on the receiving end of Pidge Holt’s fury, he’d never seen her so genuinely angry. She was livid, shaking all over, mouth curled into a snarl. He shrunk back under her gaze. “I—”

 _“Did I ask you to speak,”_ Pidge snapped. Keith glanced down to watch her tiny hands curl into white-knuckled fists. “Keith, I’ve tolerated this shit for too long. It’s fine—no, actually. It’s _not_ fine. It’s not fine for you to be uncomfortable because I talk about being trans, or Hunk mentions being bi, or Allura and Nyma kiss in front of you or _any of it._ It’s not. Just because you think you’re not a fucking bigot doesn’t meant you aren’t. Just because—” she broke off suddenly, glaring at the ground.

“Lance has struggled with his identity his whole life,” Hunk added, only slightly less furious. “Even if he did actually love you, why would you be so disgusted by that? You could’ve just—”

“Just ‘cause you don’t think all gay people should die, you should get Ally of the Month award, huh? Is that it?”

Keith’s heart hammered against his ribs. “I’m—”

“The last thing Lance would want to do is hurt you, so why on earth would you hurt him?”

“You’re lucky Allura hasn’t had enough of your bullshit yet. Even though you hate—” 

“Okay, Pidge, calm down, _look at him—”_

“Oh, and your life is so fucking _easy,_ isn’t it?” Pidge spat the words like they were poison on her tongue. “You and—” 

And those were the words that made his world collapse. Keith stood up so quickly that he swore the earth shook under his feet, anger coursing through him. Hunk and Pidge flinched away.

“I’m _gay,_ Pidge!”

The sun glared down on him. He tasted copper.

“I’m gay, and nothing—!”

Hunk’s eyes were wide. Pidge’s hands flew up to her mouth.

“And,” Keith took a shaky breath. He could feel the tears stinging at his eyes, but letting them fall would only humiliate him more. “Nothing has ever been easy for me. _Ever.”_

He didn’t wait for their answer, just stepped over the coffee tray and went inside. He’d bitten his lip so hard it was bleeding into his mouth.

______________________________________________

“Allura.”

Her eyes were grounding. He got the words out as quickly as he could. “I need to leave. Now.”

And she nodded, just a fraction. It was enough to let him know she understood.

He slipped back inside, dashed down the Mystery aisle to avoid Hunk and Pidge, who were sprinting through the Sci-Fi section trying to find him, and burst through the back door into the sun once more.

Unlocking his bike seemed to take years. His heart was beating in his mouth. 

His fingers were shaking too hard to get a proper grip on the handlebars. One foot quivered and slipped off the pedal, scraping his ankle into a crimson mess.

“Keith!” 

It was Hunk, and he was running, and his voice caught as he shouted, “Come back!”

Without looking back, Keith sped out of the alley. Blood was drying over his lips, but he didn’t care. All he knew was that he had to _go._

______________________________________________

_Oh shit,_ he thought, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He sniffed again to make sure, and yup, there it was.

_My apartment’s on fire._

He groaned into his pillow. Considered the pros and cons of him staying in bed, and subsequently burning alive. Reluctantly, he decided it wasn’t worth it and crawled off his mattress towards the door. As he neared it, though, he heard footsteps.

 _Great. A burglar. Now I’m gonna be torched to a crisp and penniless._ He sat back on his heels, wincing as he felt his scraped ankle, and scanned the room for weapon-ish things. Finding nothing, he grabbed his phone charger and tiptoed out into the hallway.

“I look like such a tool,” he muttered to himself, glancing down at his faded boxers and too-small shirt. His hair, he knew, was greasy and matted to one side of his face—he’d lost all his elastics somewhere in the piles of god-knew-what on his bedroom floor. Briefly, he wondered if the burglar-arsonist-potential murderer would just take pity on him and let him go free.

“Yes, you do.”

Keith’s heart dropped somewhere into the region of his gut. He spun around, swinging the charger above his head, dreading what he would see.

A pair of familiar blue eyes glared into his.

“I was worried sick,” Allura complained, waving a greasy spatula at him. She was leaning against the bathroom door, scowling fiercely, a pair of his sweatpants draped over one arm.

“Gah,” Keith replied, swaying on the spot. “I—what—”

An alarm sounded in the kitchen. Allura swore and pushed past him, his sweatpants trailing behind her like a flag.

“Hey,” Keith uttered, still in shock. “Hey!” He chased after her.

Allura was flapping his sweatpants hopelessly at the smoke detector, saying ‘fuck’ in a variation of tones. “Take the pan off the stove,” she ordered.

“How did you get in?”

_“Pan. Stove.”_

Keith sputtered indignantly for a moment, then glanced behind him. Indeed, a pan was sitting on his hardly-used stove, smoking away. He leapt over and whisked it off, then fumbled with the unfamiliar dials until the red element died down. 

The alarm finally went silent. Allura dropped his sweatpants to the ground and took the pan from him. “Fuck,” she said again, poking at the unidentifiable thing inside. “Oh well. At least the other one is edible. Do you have a compost?”

Keith shook his head numbly.

Allura rolled her eyes and set the pan on the other side of the stove, then shoved a plate at him. “Eat.”

“What’s this?” Keith squinted down at it. It seemed to be food, but he couldn’t be sure with Allura. Back when he crashed at her apartment, she used to burn _water_ —and he was no help. After a few hours of struggling, they’d always give in and order takeout.

“I made eggs,” Allura said, retrieving her spatula. “Over-easy. And fried tomatoes and toast, so you can eat something other than instant noodles.”

Keith looked at her, doubtful.

“It’s fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “Nyma’s been teaching me.”

“How did you get in,” Keith repeated, picking a red lump—tomato, and not half bad, he thought, chewing tentatively. A little too crispy, maybe.

“You forget I once owned this place.” She laughed and fished out a key. “Ta-da!”

“Creepy.”

Allura frowned. “Well, I thought you were just having one of your bad days—until Hunk and Pidge came to me. They were so upset. They didn’t really tell me what happened, but I suspected it wasn’t something good. Also, your lip was bleeding. I thought someone had punched you. I’m completely benevolent, I swear—although this place could use _a lot_ of cleaning, which is why I'm trying to dispose of your gross sweatpants.”

Instead of replying, Keith tried to pick his egg up with his fingers. 

_“Honestly,”_ Allura sighed, and dug a fork out of the drying rack. She pointed it at him. “Come on. Let’s go sit down. I want you to explain yourself.”

A little while later, Keith was slumped at the kitchen table, more full than he’d ever been since Allura’s birthday dinner. Across from him, Allura sipped black coffee from a chipped mug, wincing every so often at the taste—he’d run out of sugar and milk, among other things, and had forgotten to buy more. 

“So,” she said, gagging as delicately as she could. “What happened?”

“Um, Lance and I had a fight, and—” 

“I know. You were moping around the store all week.”

“Am I really that easy to read?”

“Easy to read. Ha!” Allura grinned. “Get it?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Anyway, he made some weird joke about being in love with me and I was freaked out, kind of, and Hunk tried to get me to confess and then Pidge got involved and they both misunderstood me and it turned into kind of a shitshow.”

Allura frowned, tapping her nails against the table. “Go on.”

“Uh.” Keith ate his last crust of toast. “And so—it was just the heat of the moment, and I was mad, and I-I told them that—” 

“What?”

“That I’m gay.” Keith stared down at his knees.

After a silent, agonizing moment, he glanced back up. 

Allura’s expression made his heart twist up inside his chest. “Oh, _Keith—”_

“And then,” he continued, shrinking back into his chair, “that was it. I yelled at them and then told you I had to go and I just. I came here and went to sleep and, well, it’s now.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Allura whispered. “If I’d known that, I would’ve—God, I would’ve killed those guys, the ones who beat you—” 

“No. It-it wasn’t...I just realized, um, not too long ago. It was sort of a disaster.”

Allura reached out and grabbed his hand. “Keith, I’m so sorry. I wish—”

“You don’t have to worry. I’m fine, I swear, I don’t want you to get all emotional on me. Allura, hey.”

But Allura was already crying, tears spilling helplessly onto the table, into her coffee, her lap. Her hand shook horribly around Keith’s. 

“I-I should’ve been there,” she choked out. “You didn’t deserve to deal wi-with that all by yourself—I had to, and it messed me up so badly, Keith, I—”

But her words were cut off as Keith shot out of his seat and flung his arms around her, muffling her sob against his shoulder.

Allura stiffened. “Wh—” 

Keith pulled back to clutch her face between his hands. “Allura, look at me.”

She did. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and her eyes were wide and blue and so heartbreakingly _sad_ that Keith shrunk back, ashamed to have upset her. He cleared his throat.

“You don’t have to be so self-sacrificing,” he said, trying desperately to keep his voice even. “You’ve done so much for everyone around you—you helped Shiro open his garage, you comforted Pidge when her dad died, you set up Hunk and Shay, and,” Keith swallowed hard.“You gave me my life back. You know that, right? You saved me, Allura, and it sounds stupid, but you did.”

Allura nodded, lip trembling.

“I’ve made friends, I’ve gotten back on my feet, I have a steady job now, all because of you—who’ve been so strong even through your parents’ death and almost losing the store, and—” Keith blinked away the tears that prickled at his vision. “You should never have to beat yourself up like this again. Okay? A-and even though I’m not rich, or funny, or kind-hearted or absolutely fucking incredible like you, I’d like to return at least one favour.”

He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. It was gentle, a little nervous, and lasted barely a second, but a smile crept over Allura’s features, slow and wonderful. 

“You’re a saint,” Keith said. “You really are. Thank you. I love you.”

Now it was Allura’s turn to fling her arms around him. “I love you, too.”

They stayed like that for a moment before Keith wheezed, “Allura?”

“Mm?”

“You’re crushing my organs.”

“Oh, sorry.” She let go. 

As Keith massaged his stomach back into its regular shape, Allura’s phone rang. She answered with “Come on up, you two!”

_“What?”_

Only seconds later, the front door burst open. Keith barely had time to blink before two mysterious figures leapt at him, tackling him to the floor. _Fuck,_ he thought, trying to squirm away from their grasping hands. _Did Allura hire hitmen? Did she actually just come here to murder me?_

Then he realized he wasn’t being choked to death, or stabbed, or shot. The figures were hugging him. And they weren’t mysterious at all. 

“Hunk? Pidge?”

Pidge rolled off him. “Yeah.” She grinned. “Sorry for scaring you. And sorry for being such an asshole.”

Hunk, who’d latched himself to Keith’s side and refused to let go, agreed emphatically. He was crying a little bit, and it was getting on Keith’s shirt.

Allura crouched down beside them. “Surprise! They started moping around just like you were. But I couldn’t have that, could I? The store would get so gloomy with the three of you wallowing in your sadness all the time.”

“So she brought us here.” Pidge shoved her glasses up. “To apologize.”

She looked over at Hunk. “Do you want to—?”

“Mm. Sure.” Hunk coughed. “We’re really, really sorry we treated you like that. You didn’t deserve what we said.”

“It was stupid of us not to realize something was up with you,” Pidge interjected, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “We should’ve been more careful. And it sucks, Keith. I know. I’ve been there. So has Hunk. So have all of us. It sucks to carry something like that around by yourself.”

“If there’s anything we can do—trust us, we get it—let us know. We’re experienced gays,” Hunk deadpanned. “We’ll teach you our secret ways.”

“The way of the gay!” Pidge laughed. “But yeah. We hope you can forgive us. Is that good?” She added, turning to Allura.

Keith fumbled with words for a moment. “That,” he finally said, staring down at his trembling hands, “that was really great. I’m sorry for being an asshole, too. And thanks for, uh, accepting me? It’s pretty weird right now, and confusing, but um, I’m glad I have you guys here for me.” He glanced back to his friends, their faces hopeful, and let himself smile a little.

“Holy shit,” Hunk said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Is that a grin I see? From Keith ‘I’m-so-cool-distant-and-edgy’ Kogane himself?”

“Come on, man,” Keith protested, but Hunk just laughed and hugged him tighter. And then Pidge wiped at her eyes and tried to wrap her skinny little arms around the two of them and Allura kissed Hunk on the cheek and then they were falling happily onto the ground, holding each other like lifeboats. 

As he sank to the floor, Keith remembered something Allura had told him, the day she’d found him in the alleyway.

 _You have to choose your own family,_ she’d said, matter-of-fact. _Family isn’t always blood, you know. You don’t owe your blood anything._

“Family is whatever and whoever makes you the best person you can be,” Keith whispered against the top of Pidge’s head.

“Huh?” She poked him in the ribs. “Are you talking shit?”

 _“No._ And never mind.” 

Keith tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. There was a crack in it. He’d have to get that fixed. And he’d have to vacuum, and mop, and make things spotless again— 

_Or not,_ he thought. _It can wait._ After all, the best things in life were a little messy. 

Allura’s hair was in his mouth, and Pidge wouldn’t stop squirming, and his left hand was numb underneath Hunk’s back, but that was okay.

This was his family.

______________________________________________

Five days later, Keith was standing in front of In Bloom, heart doing somersaults in his chest. It was August twentieth.

Lance’s birthday.

“Go,” Allura had told him when he returned to work, practically pushing him out of Open Book, and when he didn’t, she decided to crack down hard. She came up behind him at work and whispered it in his ear, she texted it to him over and over, and even got some puzzled customers involved in chanting “Talk to Lance” at him from across the store. Finally, when she got ahold of Pidge and made her film every single one of their friends telling him to apologize to Lance so their suffering would end, Keith gave in.

There were new flowers in the window boxes. Tiny purple-blue ones.

He gazed through the distorted glass panes surrounding the door, hoping for a glimpse of Lance, but no familiar slouched shoulders or teal hair came into view.

Sighing, Keith gingerly pushed the door open. A bell sounded softly in the back—maybe it was new, or he just hadn’t noticed it before. 

He hovered around the front of the store, wincing at every creak his shoes made on the floor. It was silent in the shop except for the water trickling from the garden fountains. The air felt tense, like a wrong step could set off a bomb. 

_Suck it up, Kogane,_ he told himself. _Just go see if he’s at the counter._

But Lance wasn’t there, or even in the back room. A chill ran down Keith’s spine. He was pushing through the bead curtain, intent on leaving as soon as possible, when he heard a door open. Not the front one. 

He’d only passed by them, never gone up, but there were a flight of stairs tucked into the back corner, partially hidden behind the enormous lily display. They led to Lance’s apartment. Which meant—

There was a pattering of footsteps down the stairs, too quick for Keith to hide from. Without a second thought, he made a break for it.

“Sorry, I swear I locked up, we’re— _oh.”_

Too late. Keith froze, his hand on the doorknob. He turned around.

“Hi,” Lance said, slowly emerging from among the plants. His gaze was cold, his voice level, and it made Keith’s palms sweat. “What are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from _west coast_ by coconut records.
> 
> MORE ALLURA APPRECIATION 2KFOREVER
> 
> also the chance to write keith & allura and keith & pidge & hunk friendships breathed life into my writer's blocked body....i love them theyre all such good pals
> 
> anyway after i watch vld season 2 i'm sure i'll be updating a touch more frequently! i'm so excited to see how all the characters will develop (+ i'll probably incorporate some of that into this fic). anyway hope u enjoyed this update + as always feel free to leave comments!


	8. maybe i'm a fool

They say time stops when you meet the love of your life. 

Standing in the doorway of the flower shop, Keith Kogane wondered if that also happened when you met your doom. It certainly seemed that way; neither he nor Lance—his potential murderer—moved an inch, and all sound was drowned out by the frantic beating of his overworked heart.

“Uh,” he said, contemplating the benefits of going into cardiac arrest at that very moment, “hi?”

Lance looked unimpressed. His gaze landed on some distant point past Keith’s elbow. “Hi. Like I said, what do you want?”

His piercings were nowhere to be seen, and his hair had washed out to a soft brown color. It was wet and a little curly at the nape of his neck. _Cute,_ Keith’s brain helpfully supplied, and he told it, _shut up._

“Sorry for coming in,” he finally rasped out. _Words. Use them, Keith._ “I just thought, because of the unlocked door and everything…”

Lance licked his bottom lip in a way that made Keith momentarily incapable of rational thought. “I was showering when I heard the bell ring. Didn’t want to confront a robber naked and covered in body wash.”

“Oh.” Keith stared down at his feet and made a futile attempt not to picture that. “Um—”

Before he could say anything else, though, a loud chirping sound emanated from Lance’s pocket. Lance pulled his phone out, magnifying the noise, then tapped _Answer_ and held it up to his ear. “Hello?”

A woman’s high-pitched voice was audible in the silence of the shop. At first, Keith couldn’t make out the words, but then realized that she must have been speaking Spanish.

“Mom?” Lance grinned, his eyes crinkling up. _“¿Mamá?_ No, no, I’m not busy. _Un amigo esta visitando.”_ He glanced back at Keith, his expression souring. “He can wait, though. What’s up?” 

Even from where he stood, Keith heard a handful of different voices join in, all chorusing in a mix of Spanish and English. 

_“¿Qué?”_ Lance furrowed his brow. “Uh...Luis? Nina? Hang on, I can’t figure out who’s who. _De uno a la vez, pendejos.”_ He paused, then rolled his eyes. “Adrian, _cabrón,_ don’t tell me to watch my language, wait until dad finds out what you said last time you called—what?” He pushed aside a pot of tulips and perched on the clear inch of table beneath. _“¡Casi me olvido! He estado tan ocupado…”_

Keith wondered if he could sneak out while Lance wasn’t paying attention. Unfortunately, that hope was shattered the moment he took a step back—Lance glared at him and held up a commanding finger. Don’t move, he mouthed, then burst into laughter at something one of his siblings said. 

_“Sí, sí. Trataré de relajarme,_ Isa, _lo prometo. Nos vemos en la navidad. Sí. Sí. Adiós, mamá. Di hola a papá,_ hey? Oh, and ‘bye to you demons, too, I guess. Okay. Love you!” Lance grinned down at his phone for a moment, then hung up.

Keith dragged the tip of his sneaker along the floor. “Siblings, huh,” he said, looking nervously over at Lance.

“Mm. Four of ‘em. I’m the oldest, and Isabelle’s next, and then Nina and Luis—they’re twins. Adrian’s the baby. He’s thirteen, and already a pain in the ass. But they’re mostly good kids. Called to wish me happy birthday.” Lance put his phone away, then caught the wet ends of his hair and twisted them around his fingertips. His expression hardened. “So. What do you want?”

“I, um.” Keith dug his nails into his palms. “I wanted to apologize.”

Rolling his eyes, Lance only replied, “Oh, that? Don’t worry, I got over it ages ago.” He turned away to examine a bonsai tree and pulled a pair of shears out of his apron. “If that’s all, you can go.”

Instinctively, Keith leapt forward. “No!”

Lance stepped back at the same time, his eyes wary. 

“I mean, I want this to be sincere.” 

Lance put the shears down and crossed his arms. “This better be good, then.”

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, Keith began. “I—I don’t have an excuse, actually. I shouldn’t have been so freaked out just by that little joke, and I shouldn’t have avoided you for so long. I was, um, going through a weird rough patch? And I took out my frustration on you. But I’m sorry this happened, and I hope you can forgive me, ‘cause I—” his cheeks were getting hot, but he soldiered on. “‘Cause I like being your friend. A lot. And you’ve done so much more for me than you know, so thank you for that.”

Silence.

He took a chance and met Lance’s eyes again. 

“Jesus,” Lance sighed. He sounded long-suffering, but there was a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re persistent, aren’t you? Like I said, a charmer.”

“What?”

“I—wow,” Lance continued, perching back against the table. He picked at a tray of frost ferns as he spoke, tearing the fronds neatly in two. “That was surprisingly genuine of you. I didn’t think you’d go all out for something shitty—which, honestly, was mostly my fault.”

“S-so,” Keith tried, confused. “You weren’t really mad?”

“No, no.” Glancing away, Lance swung his legs back and forth. His feet were bare, slender like a dancer’s. “Actually, I should apologize, too. God, I acted like such a douchebag. And the worst part is that I can’t even explain it either—I was having kind of an off day, but I know that’s not a good enough excuse.” He paused, drumming his fingertips on the table. “Oh, and pretending to be in love with you? Shitty joke, sorry. That bouquet you saw me toss away was actually just for another customer.”

Keith opened his mouth, then shut it like a hinge. _Why was Lance lying?_ He nodded along, though, and decided he’d ask again later.

“So. Do you…” Lance’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. He rocked back on his heels, clearly still unsure around Keith. “Do you, uh, wanna come upstairs? We can talk more. I can make coffee. Or something.”

His shirt was white, a little wet. It stuck to his chest. Keith was definitely staring. 

“Coffee,” he repeated numbly, tongue heavy in his mouth. “Coffee sounds good. Or something.”

“Coffee or something it is, then,” Lance replied, smiling slightly, the nervous hunch of his shoulders disappearing. His eyes flickered over Keith’s face for a moment before he turned away to weave through the jungle of plants. “C’mon.”

____________________________________

When Keith saw Lance’s apartment for the first time, he nearly cried.

“What?” Lance poked him in the back. He’d stopped abruptly on the threshold, leaving Lance trapped on the top stair.

“It’s so... _clean,”_ he stammered, gazing in terror at the scene before him.

It was smaller than Keith’s, but a hundred times nicer: potted plants scattered around the room, white shelves stacked with books of poetry, walls the softest shade of blue. Gleaming floorboards, posters of pretty scenery or bands or old movies artfully tacked here and there. Across the room, a record player, keyboard, and guitar sat shining in the sunlight—sunlight that spilled in from the one long window on that side. The only signs someone even lived there were the unmade bed sitting on the far right corner, pillows and blankets in a heap atop it, and a set of wet footprints, which lead from the adjoining bathroom door to where Keith stood. It was all so incongruous with Lance’s personality—although, Keith thought, Lance _did_ take pride in his appearance. 

Lance had squirmed past him and gone over to the tiny kitchenette, where he was filling a garishly green kettle with water. “How do you take it, again? Plain black?”

“Yeah.” Keith balanced on his toes. He was still standing in the doorway. 

Frowning, Lance turned on an element and set the kettle down. “You can come in, vampire.”

Keith came in. Ducked his head in embarrassment. Lance stared at him for a moment like he’d been lobotomized, then said, “Sit.” He gestured towards the table in the center of the room; two chairs, splintery wood, a dog-eared volume by someone named Ginsberg resting on the floor nearby.

After an excruciating two minutes of silence and shifting in his chair, Keith said, “Nice place.”

“Yeah, it’s all right. A lot of this stuff is from home.” Lance poured coffee grinds—probably expensive, Keith guessed, catching the scent—into filters, placed them in chipped mugs, and tipped the kettle over them. “Want anything to eat? I have, uh…” He turned around and opened his fridge. “Hm. Not much. Clementines?”

“No thanks.”

Lance brought one over for himself, along with the steeped mugs, one dark, one light and probably painfully sugary. Then he sat down across from Keith, stretched his legs out, and asked, “Wanna talk? The quiet’s kind of unnerving, dude.”

 _First, calm down._ Keith nodded. “Can I use your bathroom before that, though?”

Lance dug his thumbnail into the clementine skin. “All yours. Don’t slip on the floor.”

There was a lock on the bathroom door. Keith didn’t touch it. He stared into the mirror instead, taking into account his hair (matted, only slightly less greasy than normal—he’d taken an Allura-mandated shower yesterday), his clothes (what was the pink stain on his t-shirt? Zero fucking clue), and his face (vaguely unpleasant). 

“I,” he muttered, prodding at the bags beneath his eyes, “am a human trainwreck.”

Lance’s bathroom was also blue, but closer to the teal color of his motorbike. The polka-dot shower curtain was flung back, probably due to Lance’s hurry to meet him downstairs, and there was a towel discarded over the back of the toilet. There were still traces of steam on the mirror, and the room smelled like lavender soap and cinnamon, maybe, very Lance. 

_Don’t make this weird,_ Keith reminded himself.

There was a tiny window beside the sink that overlooked the alley between In Bloom and the video rental shop. On its minuscule ledge were a few framed pictures; a young boy with brown skin and lots of freckles, holding a baseball bat. Two girls, one with choppy dyed-purple hair, the other older and wearing an enormous red sunhat. Another boy who looked nearly identical to the purple-haired girl, sprawled half-asleep on a couch. And finally, a group picture; Lance surrounded by those kids, along with a beaming middle-aged man, a tiny, frazzled-looking woman in a long flowered skirt, and a wrinkled old woman grasping a cane and ruffling the youngest boy’s hair. 

Lance’s family.

Keith grimaced at his reflection. He was _not_ going to cry in this bathroom. He’d never be able to live it down. 

So he blinked, hard, brushed his hair out of his eyes a little, and scrubbed uselessly at the pink stain before pushing the door open. 

Lance had gotten his guitar out and was fiddling with the strings, his feet propped up on the table. The case lay beside him, a bunch of weird tools Keith didn’t recognize scattered inside it. He picked cautiously at each string, lingering as if trying to remember a song.

When Keith sat down, he noticed with regret that his coffee was cooling off. He drank it anyway. It was better than Open Book’s by a long shot. 

“So,” he said, after tilting his head back to catch the dregs. “You wanna talk?”

Lance strummed loudly a couple times, then picked up his mug. “Huh. I don’t know. Feel like we’ve already said what we had to say.” He took a long sip, making a face as he did so. “Not sweet enough.”

“I guess so.”

Dumping another disgustingly large spoonful of sugar into his mug, Lance arched his eyebrows. “You’re sure everything’s all right?”

“I—” Keith thought, then, thought about the apologies they’d made and the sunlight over Lance’s hands and the cool breeze sweeping through the room, and decided, “Yeah. Everything really is all right. When we were, uh, _distant,_ I got something off my chest that’s been bugging me for a long time, which was nice.”

“Cool. Oh!” Lance hit a chord. “That’s it!” He began to pick out a few jazzy notes, humming faintly along with it.

"I like that,” Keith said. "What is it?" 

Lance stared at him in disbelief. "I know you're not a music guy, but you don't know _Billie Holiday?_ The best female jazz singer of _all time?"_

Keith shrugged. Lance sighed. "Here, I'll play the rest of it for you. I'm not a great singer, as you know, but—” 

“I can, um, look away,” Keith offered. “If you want.” Lance, clearly nervous as hell, had one leg bouncing like a jackhammer against the floorboards. 

"No, no, it's all good." With a shaky breath, Lance strummed a couple times, and began to sing. _“Living for you is easy living, it’s easy to live when you’re in love. And I’m so in love, there’s—”_

"Wait,” Keith blurted. “I know this!” 

Lance paused, fingers trembling on the strings. “You do?”

“Yeah. You—” Keith thanked the gods that his tongue mysteriously stopped working at that moment, because he would have rather died than tell Lance about the whole near-breakdown at one in the morning on his front stoop fiasco. "Never mind. Go ahead.”

“You sure? I could teach you, instead—” Lance brandished the guitar at him. 

“Maybe later. First, just you.”

Lance hesitated, then nodded, tucked the neck under his arm, and started up again. 

His voice was a bit wavery, but it was still nice—a warm sound, Keith decided, warm and unhurried, and surely better than his. _"And I'm so in love, there's nothing in life but you. I'll never regret the years I'm giving, they're easy to give, when you’re in love. I'm happy to do whatever I do for you."_ He glanced up at Keith, who grinned back, hoping he looked encouraging and not creepy. 

_"For you,"_ Lance continued, staring back down at his guitar, _"maybe I'm a fool but it's fun. People say you rule me with one wave of your hand, darling it's grand—they just don't understand.”_ He’d shifted so that he leaned towards Keith. Their knees were almost touching, and the space between them was electric.

As Lance launched into the last verse, his mouth curled up into a smile. His lips were pink, bitten on the inside, and the way his head tilted forward caught sunlight on his skin, illuminating freckles over the upturn of his nose.

 _Oh, fuck,_ Keith thought, his heart flinging itself at his ribs. _Fuck._

_I want to kiss Lance._

_I really, really want to kiss Lance._

_“And I'm so in love,”_ Lance sang, _“there's nothing in life but you!”_ He drew out the last note, shaking his head around to make his voice vibrate dramatically.

Keith clapped. Lance dipped his head in a bow. “Want me to teach you now?”

“Uh…” Lance pouted. Keith was weak. “Okay. I’m probably horrible, just warning you.”

Clicking his tongue, Lance stood up, brought his chair over next to Keith’s, and handed him the guitar. “Never learn with that attitude. What song? Not the Billie one, it’s too hard for a beginner. Oh, wait! Do you know Kimya Dawson?”

Keith shook his head and picked at one of the strings. “Not a clue.”

“Well, I should've guessed. She isn’t super mainstream. Anyway, I really like this one song of hers. It’s only three chords: C, F, and G, so you’ll probably pick it up pretty quickly. And we’ve just got to put _this_ baby—” Lance reached into the case and pulled out a clamp-like thing. “It’s a capo. Changes pitch. I’m putting it on the fourth fret.” He leaned over to fasten it around the guitar’s neck, and the smell of flowery shampoo overwhelmed Keith. “Okay, so G is the easiest. I can move your fingers around on the strings to show you. Here.”

He grabbed Keith’s index finger. “Put it _here,_ and the middle one there, and the ring—no, no here. Good! Press down and strum with, um, kinda your index and thumb nails on the other hand? I can’t find any of my picks, so.” 

Keith did. A flat sort of sound came out. 

“Arch your fingers. That’s it. Now onto F.”

And so an hour passed, with Lance fumbling with Keith’s fingers, pushing them up as to not mute the strings, laughing good-naturedly when he fucked up, and teaching him simple strum patterns, until finally asking, “You wanna try the whole thing?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll count us in. And sing, ‘cause I like the lyrics. Ready?”

Keith positioned his fingers. “When you are.”

Beaming, Lance leaned back in his chair and counted, “One, two, a-one two three and—!”

To Keith’s surprise, his fingers managed to stumble over the chords fairly quickly, with only a few mistakes along the way. He was almost making time with Lance’s singing, which he couldn’t totally focus on. Something about lice?

_“You're so nice and you're so smart, you're such a good friend I have to break your heart. Tell you that I love you then I'll tear your world apart, just pretend I didn't tear your world apart.”_

Keith missed a full four beats. Lance was staring down at his feet as he sang, his neck darkening like a blush.

 _“I like boys with strong convictions, and_...convicts? _With perfect diction. Underdogs with good intentions, amputees with stamp collections, something something ride the ocean, salty noses, suntan lotion.”_ Lance’s voice dropped in and out, like he’d forgotten the words. 

The two of them fumbled through the last stretch of the song, Keith picking up speed and Lance giggling as he sang, _“I like my new bunny suit, when I wear it I feel cute.”_

Keith strummed the final chord, and let out a breath of relief. He tipped his head back.

“Dude!” Lance smacked his elbow. “That was so good! Are you sure you’re a first-timer?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Damn. You’re a natural.” Lance popped the last piece of clementine in his mouth. “You should come over again soon—we could start a band!”

Keith grinned at him, and opened his mouth to say something, but he was startled by the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket. The notification light was flashing wildly.

“Shit!” One missed call and five messages from Allura, three from Hunk, and one from Pidge that simply read _fuck u._ “I totally forgot I was working two shifts today!” He put his phone back and put the guitar back into its case as gently as he could. “Thanks for having me over, and for the coffee, and sorry again!” 

He’d skidded halfway out the door when he glanced back, just for a second. Lance was still standing where they’d parted, looking uneasy, a little awkward. His hands hung limply at his sides.

Keith felt a twinge of pity. “Um...do you wanna, uh, come out with me and Pidge and Hunk?” He shifted so he was facing Lance, propping himself against the doorframe. “Tomorrow night at that diner—the one a couple blocks away and across the street? We’re celebrating that Open Book’s staying open. Allura and Coran were supposed to come, but Allura has a date with Nyma and Coran said he didn’t want to, uh, spoil the young ones’ fun, or something.”

Lance relaxed, then, and shot him a half-smile. “Hunk already invited me, actually. I guess I’ll meet you there?”

“Yeah!” As sudden as a breeze, Keith felt breathlessly happy. “Yeah, for sure!” 

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Your shift,” Lance said, rocking onto the tips of his toes.

“Oh, right.” Keith hovered for a second more, then brought his hand up in a little, awkward wave. Lance did the same. “See you later!”

And he was gone.

____________________________________

It was eight a.m. 

Too early to be having a crisis, Keith decided, staring into the swirling black surface of his coffee. His phone lay an inch away, open to him and Shiro’s chat.

 _Just bite the bullet,_ he told himself. _He’s the only person who won’t make fun of you._ Except maybe Matt, but Keith barely knew the guy. Or Allura, but after Keith made her cry so much, he didn’t want a repeat. So, Shiro it was.

He reached out and typed one letter, then deleted it. Took a deep breath.

Okay. He could do this.

 **keef:** _Shiro I need help_  
**keef:** _So um, hypothetically_  
**keef:** _if I was, say, interested in someone...when would be the best time to tell them_  
**keef:** _Hypothetically, though_

Only seconds later, his phone vibrated with a reply. 

**shir-bro:** _…_  
**shir-bro:** _Keith, what’s going on?_  
**keef:** _Nothing!! just wondering_  
**shir-bro:** _Honestly, buddy, I’m not the best person to help you out with that. Like, Matt made the first move and I acted like a complete idiot. The only thing I said when he suggested we get together was “uh, what? Yeah, ok, cool, sure. Yeah.” In that order._  
**shir-bro:** _Also I don’t even want to go into how ridiculous I acted around Allura during middle school._

Keith choked on his coffee.

 **keef:** _WHAT_  
**shir-bro:** _Literally everyone has been in love with Allura at some point in their lives, you should know this. But yeah, she came to class one day with her hair cut short and lent me a pencil and for some reason, I fell head over heels. And I even went as far as trying to ask her out._  
**keef:** _WHAT_  
**shir-bro:** _Of course, she rejected me. We’d been friends for so long she thought it’d feel weird. So I backed off, feeling sorry for myself, but I was still nuts about her all the way up until ninth grade. And then on orientation day I met this other cute girl and the crush went away, just like that._  
**keef:** _Wow..._  
**shir-bro:** _Don’t make fun of me! :( But yeah, I’m sorry I can’t really help. I would just say trust your instincts? Try to figure out how they feel about you, too. Hypothetically, of course._  
**keef:** _Ok thanks_  
**keef:** _Oh by the way can we change these chat names? I hate “keef”_  
**shir-bro:** _I like it! It’s funny. Remember when I thought that was your real name because I couldn’t hear you over the machinery in the garage? Good times!_  
**shir-bro:** _And personally, I love “shir-bro.” It’s like I’m your cool older brother, you know? Offering you love advice and all that._  
**keef:** _Ew. Fine, whatever, see you later_  
**shir-bro:** _Bye!_

Keith shoved his phone in his pocket and gulped down the rest of his coffee, promising himself he’d clean the dishes when he got home (he wouldn’t). He checked the time: only ten minutes until his shift started. Calculating the distance between his apartment and Open Book, he hurried over to the front door and hoisted his bike over one shoulder. 

As he maneuvered the bike out into the stairwell, his phone buzzed again, startling him. He pulled it out and squinted at the screen.

 **shir-bro:** _WAIT_  
**shir-bro:** _Could this hypothetical person...possibly be…_  
**shir-bro:** _Someone by the hypothetical name of..._  
**shir-bro:** _Lance? ;)_  
**keef:** _GOODBYE SHIRO_  


____________________________________

“Look,” Hunk declared, waving a fry in front of Lance’s nose. “I appreciate your carefully thought-out argument, but saying _Return of the Jedi_ is better than _The Empire Strikes Back_ is just plain _wrong,_ buddy.”

Lance slumped back against the pink plastic booth, crossing his arms petulantly. “But it’s the finale! It’s where everything finally ties together! Vader gets his redemption arc!”

Through a mouthful of burger, Pidge snapped, “You’re both wrong, actually. The best one is clearly _The Force Awakens.”_

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you have a huge crush on Daisy Ridley. Although it was really good,” Hunk agreed. “Fuck Kylo Ren, though.”

“We need a tiebreaker,” Lance decided, tipping his glass back to finish the remnants of his beer.

Three heads swiveled in Keith’s direction. He shrunk underneath their gazes. “I, uh—”

Pidge stared at him over the rim of her glasses. “You’ve never watched any of them, have you?”

“Well, like, maybe half of one at school. The one with that guy, what’s-his-face, Jar Jar?”

Hunk groaned and mimed fainting out of his seat. Lance pretended to stick a finger down his throat. 

“You did _not,”_ Pidge gasped, laughter bubbling into her words. “Please don’t tell me the only Star Wars movie you’ve watched is a goddamn prequel.”

Keith shrugged. “I thought it was okay.”

“We’re fixing that,” Lance said, prodding his shoulder. “You, me, on Friday: original trilogy marathon, then Force Awakens. It’ll make you forget all about those awful prequels.” He smelled like salt and cinnamon and Keith suddenly became very aware of how their legs were pressed together beneath the table, hip to ankle. 

“Guh,” he managed to get out, then cleared his throat and replied, “Sure.”

Satisfied with that answer, Lance went back to his chicken strips, and it was quiet in the booth until Hunk craned his neck and said, “Listen.”

Keith listened, but all he could hear were pots and pans clinking in the kitchen, and vaguely 80’s-sounding music blaring tinnily over the loudspeakers. “What?”

 _“Move,”_ Lance hissed in his ear. A split second later, Keith was pushed back into his seat. Lance practically leapt over him, one shoe catching between Keith’s knees, and made a wobbly landing on the black-and-white tiles. He struck a pose.

Pidge whipped out her phone and took a picture. “Nice. I’m sending that to Ava.”

“What—” Keith said, gazing in abject horror as Lance crooked his fingers, beckoning him to join in. “What is this?”

“Whitney Houston,” Lance hollered back, doing an exaggerated shoulder shimmy. He began to strut around the diner. “Hello? _I Wanna Dance With Somebody?”_

“Like you’ve already guessed, not much exposure to pop culture,” Keith called back. “And I don’t dance.”

“You did at Allura’s birthday,” Pidge pointed out, grinning over her milkshake. “Don’t you remember?”

Hunk nodded sagely from his seat next to her. “I distinctly remember you and Lance doing the tango.”

From his sprawled position by the counter stools, Lance sang along and ignored the glares he was getting from the few other patrons. _“It's the light of day that shows me how, and when the night falls, loneliness caaaaalls…”_

“Jesus,” Keith muttered. “I’m gonna go stop him before he humiliates himself even more.” He pushed out of the booth and made his way over, casting apologetic looks around the room.

“Keith!” Lance danced over to him. His eyes were glittering, color high on his cheeks. Light from the neon sign outside was streaming through the windows, illuminating him in shades of pink and blue. Whitney was singing about wanting to feel the heat with somebody. 

“Aren’t you, I don’t know, embarrassed?” Keith sneaked a glance over his shoulder at a disgruntled couple at a nearby table. 

“Why would I be? I’m trying to have fun—everyone else should be embarrassed of how boring they’re being. _I've been in love and lost my senses, spinning through the town.”_ Lance dipped low, hips swaying, and Keith almost forgot what he was going to say.

“You…you’re not drunk, are you?”

“Not really. ” Lance grabbed his hands. “Dance with me!”

“Too many people.”

“There’s like, five, excluding us. Loosen up, you’re fine.”

“Oh, thanks. I feel _so_ much better.” 

But Keith let Lance drag him around anyway, rolling his eyes every time Lance tried to match the singer's pitch, until in a moment of daring, he dropped his hands to Lance’s waist. 

Lance froze. A shudder passed through him.

Keith let go. 

“N-no.” Chewing at his bottom lip, Lance pulled Keith’s hands back to where they were, and placed his own on Keith’s shoulders, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck. “It’s fine.” They began to move again, slower this time, fixing their gazes pointedly away from each other.

Hunk wolf-whistled in the background. Keith briefly detached one hand to flip him off, and Lance laughed, and the tension drained from both of them.

“You know,” Lance hummed after a minute or so, trying to step in some sort of rhythm Keith couldn’t keep up with. “This isn’t— _don't you wanna dance, dance, with me boy? Don't you wanna dance, dance, with me baby?_ This isn’t so bad, hey?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, grinning up at him. “Not bad at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the songs in this chapter are [easy living](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpYIELZmo9Y) (where the chapter title is also from), [ so nice so smart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5taFiXT5J90) and[ i wanna dance with somebody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eH3giaIzONA)! feel free to give em a listen! lance is a tru foc (fan of color) of all these amazing ladies
> 
> [screams through a bullhorn] I LOVE HEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS AND COMMUNICATION!! honestly if i could make these characters say "i love you and i'm proud of you" to each other in every scene, i would
> 
> 1) apologies for any mistakes in the spanish! unfortunately i'm nowhere near fluent, so please go ahead and correct me if there's a problem!  
> 3) um....voltron season 2 was Disappointing, to say the least, so i'm pretending it never happened.
> 
> so sorry for not getting this done quicker but now we are in the Home Stretch folks...i'm guessing this fic will (finally) come to a close in about 3 chapters!! very exciting!! hope you enjoyed this update, and please feel free to leave comments because i thrive off them!


	9. so scared of romance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT
> 
> also, so very sorry for the super late (but longer) update ! i'll explain more at the end!! enjoy!

Around fifteen minutes into their movie marathon, Keith decided that he didn’t really like Star Wars. 

_“What,”_ Lance screeched, sitting up so quickly that the bowl of popcorn in his lap tipped over. “You don’t _like_ it?”

Keith shrugged and scooped a few of the spilled kernels out from beneath his pillow. “It’s fine, I guess. I just don’t see why people worship this stuff. They’re just movies.”

“Just movies,” Lance repeated, grimacing. “Look, I know George Lucas is a hack, but like—” he gestured towards Luke Skywalker staring dramatically at two suns setting over some planet Keith forgot the name of. “It’s _so_ good. Wait till we get to Empire.”

Keith sighed. Since neither of them had a TV, they’d borrowed a projector from Shiro and hooked it up to Lance’s clunky laptop, then brought it to Keith’s apartment. While Lance put the disc for A New Hope into the computer and tried to get it to cooperate, Keith had hung a white sheet up over the wall opposite his mattress. It made for a decent screen, although occasionally a breeze would sweep through the bedroom and cause the sheet to swing wildly—and that was happening at that very moment. 

It was nearly October: too late to have the window open in the evening. Shivering, Keith made to get up and close it, but Lance hissed, _“No,_ you’re gonna miss this” and yanked him back down. 

Keith hadn’t realized how close they’d drifted until he fell back onto the mattress; Lance’s hand curled around his shirtsleeve, hips and knees and sides pressing together—not uncomfortable, just noticeable. Lance was warm and solid so Keith relaxed a little, settling back against the pillow with his head brushing Lance’s shoulder.

They watched all through the night, with Lance cheering at the screen every so often, Keith pointing out the worst bits of dialogue, and both of them shoveling handfuls of popcorn into their mouths, so enamoured by Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker’s battle on Bespin that they kept spilling kernels everywhere. Neither of them really cared.

It was almost one in the morning when the second Death Star exploded over Endor, and Keith had long since come to the conclusion that he’d been too quick to judge. Through watery eyes, he glanced over to see Lance crying, too, silent tears that dripped off his chin. Keith didn’t say anything, just patted Lance’s shoulder and watched the celebration onscreen, Luke and Leia and Han all embracing in a crowd of those bear things—Wookiees or Ewoks? He’d forgotten.

When the credits rolled, Lance shut the computer, wiped his eyes, and said, “Okay, take a photo of me.”

“What?”

“Me and Luis have this thing where every time we finishing watching the original trilogy, we send pictures of our crying faces to each other. It’s been years since we first did it, and it’s kind of a running joke now.”

“Uh,” Keith said, but Lance was already scrambling to turn the lights on, then shoving a phone at him, camera open.

“Just take it. Just one.”

Keith did. It was a little blurry—his hands were trembling—but Lance said “Good enough,” and sent it. Then, to Keith’s surprise, he gave him the phone again.

“What now?”

“Photo shoot!” Lance sang. “Get up and take some dramatic shots.”

“This is ridiculous,” Keith scoffed, but he weakened under Lance’s annoying pout, and climbed off the mattress. Lance beamed, then leaned back among the sheets, arranging himself like a model. 

Keith rolled his eyes and pressed the shutter button.

“Was that hot?”

Keith nearly dropped the phone. “What.”

“Was that hot,” Lance repeated, inflection unchanging. He crossed his arms over his chest. “That felt hot.”

Keith brought up the gallery, examined the picture. Lance didn’t look— _bad,_ not at all, with his glowing skin and freckles and bright gaze, but he wasn’t exactly handsome in the, well, _seductive_ way. This was likely amplified by his shin-length sweatpants and massive R2-D2 t-shirt. “No.”

Lance frowned, more pensive than upset. “You don’t think I’m hot?”

Yet another entry in The Book of Weird Conversations Keith Does Not Want to Be Part Of. “Well, I’m not sure.” 

Sighing dramatically, Lance stuck one skinny leg into the air and tilted his head to the side. “How about now?”

“Absolutely not. You look like a scarecrow.” Keith lowered Lance’s phone gently onto a discarded pair of jeans, then crawled back onto the mattress, pushing Lance’s stupidly lanky limbs aside. “Get someone else to take pictures of you—I can’t even hold the camera steady. Should we watch that new one?”

Lance’s eyes glittered happily. “Sure! The Force Awakens is _amazing.”_

As he reached over and put the disc in, Keith settled back and listened to the now-familiar opening theme blast through the room.

____________________________________

The first thing Keith noticed when he woke up was the creeping sense that something was _off._

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he glanced around. The window was still open, a chilly breeze washing over him. The projector’s beam was still on, showcasing a plain black screen on the white sheet. Lance was still— _Lance?_

“Oh, shit."

Lance was sprawled out next to him, sheets twisted around his bare legs. The dorky R2 shirt had ridden up while they slept, and the lean brown planes of his stomach were illuminated by the sun peeking through Keith’s curtains. His eyebrows were drawn downwards, almost confused, his mouth hanging a little open, one hand brushing the top of his closed computer.

 _You know what would be a good idea? Being struck down by lightning on this spot. Or melting into the ground. Either is fine._ Keith wondered if he was having a panic attack. It was definitely getting harder to breathe. He had no idea what to do: waking Lance up would mean an intensely awkward conversation, but letting him sleep could _imply_ things Keith didn’t want implied, and Lance could be freaked out at sleeping in the same bed as him either way, so—

Before he could come to a decision, Lance’s eyes shot open. 

_Oh, perfect._ Keith groaned and grabbed the nearest pillow, holding it over his chest in an attempt to protect himself. Hey, you never knew, maybe Lance was the kind of person to become a demon if woken up before noon.

“What,” Lance said, his voice broken and raspy and _wow, okay, hello hard-on._ “What the hell?”

He sat up, bleary gaze landing on Keith, who shoved the pillow between his thighs and tried not to look guilty. 

“Hi. Sorry. We accidentally fell asleep, I think, at the end of the movie,” Keith managed. The back of his neck was hot.

“Ah.” Lance rubbed at his eyes, strangely calm.

“Ah? You’re not, I don’t know, weirded out? ‘Cause it was totally my fault. Sorry. Again.”

“No, no.” Stretching his arms above his head, Lance squinted over at him. “Are _you_ weirded out, though? You look like you’re having cramps.”

“No, I—” Keith gestured vaguely downwards, and winced. This was the _worst._

 _“Oh,”_ Lance said, quiet. He looked away. His hair was curling up at the ends, damp with sweat.

“Sorry,” Keith said again.

“Maybe you should go take care of that,” Lance replied, eyes fixing onto some imaginary spot on the ceiling.

“Y-yeah, I’ll just—”

“Mm.”

Keith dropped the pillow and made a beeline for the bathroom. 

When he returned a few minutes later, pink-faced and humiliated, Lance was gone. Keith hadn’t even heard the front door close.

____________________________________

A few days later, on the way to his afternoon shift at the bookstore, Keith passed by In Bloom. Lance was out front, replacing the display flowers. He waved, dandelion earrings swaying. Keith waved back, suddenly feeling like his head was on backwards. Or like he was floating. Or high, or all three.

The next block over, he braked at the green light and announced to the sky, “Holy shit, I’m in love with him.”

He surprised himself so much that he fell off his bike.

____________________________________

“Honestly,” Hunk scolded, watching as Keith reapplied the bandages on his bloody knees. “Why’d you stop in the middle of the intersection?”

Keith shrugged. “I was just kind of out of it.” His head throbbed, and he pulled a face. 

After his startling realization and subsequent fall, he’d smacked the side of his head against a minivan. Luckily, he’d escaped without a concussion, but there was a nasty lump near his temple, and his legs were scraped and bruised to the extent where he couldn’t find a square inch that wasn’t injured. Mostly, though, it was his bike that took the beating. It got run over by a bus.

Inanely, Keith wondered if there was such thing as a bike funeral home. Somewhere he could lay the few rescued pieces to rest. Oh, a junkyard. Then he noticed how stupid that train of thought was and cut it off. 

That was probably Lance’s fault.

Lance, who he might be in love with. 

Or he’d gone completely fucking nuts. Off the deep end. Maybe Star Wars roasted his brain.

“—ey, hey.” Hunk was shaking a white box at him. “Shay came over a few minutes ago with these. She’s in high demand for desserts today, and there’s no room for these in the entire bakery.”

“What are they?” Keith limped out from behind the counter to the sitting area. Hunk was perched on Pidge’s favorite stool, his eyes gleeful as he surveyed the box’s contents.

“Spanakopita,” he murmured, reverent.

“Spana who?”

“Spanakopita. Spinach and cheese pie. Shay’s grandma is Greek, so she’s gotten really good at making ‘em.” Hunk pulled out a little triangular pastry and bit into it. He beamed. “God, I love my girlfriend. Try some.”

Keith sunk into an ugly but cushy green chair, and groaned as his head ached, sharper this time. The pain was fuzz at the edges of his brain, a low hum interspersed with louder spikes of it.

“Seriously, Keith, what happened?”

“I don’t know.” 

Hunk’s mouth turned down. “You do.”

“I was biking past Lance’s shop and he waved at me and I waved back and then I got distracted, or something. So I fell.”

“Ah, Lance. He's good at that."

"At what?" 

"Being distracting. People used to mistake us for a couple, y’know. Now,” Hunk said, pointing at Keith, “they think you two are.”

“I'm aware. Who exactly, though?" Keith moved to sit up, but the hum spiked again and he curled back into himself, biting his lip from the pain.

“Just our friends...Pidge, a lot." 

"Even though I love her usually, Pidge is a nosy enabler who uses the word 'cuck' semi-unironically and came to work high _twice_ last week, so I wouldn't call her opinion relevant." 

"Customers, too, though. When Lance hangs around here. You do _act_ like a couple.” Hunk pushed the box towards him.

“Well, we’re not. Lance doesn’t feel that way about me, and I—” Before he could compose himself, the words caught in Keith’s throat, and he felt himself flush, unwilling, all the way down his neck.

“Holy shit,” Hunk said, his eyes shining. 

“No,” Keith whined, burying his face in his chair’s armrest. “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not.”

“You are, holy _shit,_ dude, you look like a lobster.”

“Sunburn.”

“It’s October and cloudy.”

Keith flipped him off. Hunk only gazed over at him, unperturbed. “I think you should tell him ASAP. No more miscommunications on _my_ watch. I’ve been witnessing you two twirl around each other like salsa dancers for, like, three months, and I won’t have it all come apart ‘cause you can’t spit it out.”

“Can we not talk about this?”

“We are going to talk about this.” Hunk reached across the table and patted his knee, weirdly resembling a grandmother. Keith groaned, but sat up anyway. Beaming, Hunk offered the spanakopita again. Keith took one. It was still a little warm from the oven. Flaky on the outside, delicious. Shay probably had magic powers, getting him to like something with spinach in it.

Folding his hands like a psychiatrist, Hunk intoned, “So, Keith Kogane, spill. How do you feel?”

“I feel,” Keith replied, his mouth full, “like you should stop.”

“No, I meant, how do you feel about one certain handsome flower shop owner named Lance McClain-Santana?” Hunk leered at him. There was nowhere to run.

How _did_ he feel about Lance? Keith dragged the tip of his sneaker along the side of the coffee table. He liked him. A lot. Almost definitely—no, _definitely_ in a non-platonic way. Lance was somewhere between handsome and pretty, and his eyes glittered like other people’s didn’t, and his mouth was crooked and pink and every time it smiled at him, Keith felt as if sunlight was bursting out of his heart, and all other kinds of corny-ass Hallmark card bull. Lance was warm, and sad in a way he understood, and made him laugh. He was _good,_ kind if a little stubborn, loved things wholeheartedly. And despite what Keith had told him at their Star Wars-a-thon, he could be hot, maybe distractingly so, with his long legs and lowered eyelids and _okay, enough._

Keith wasn’t sure if he deserved him.

“I like him,” he said finally, and grabbed another pastry.

“Gooooood. Now, do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

“What the—I—Hunk, I have no fucking clue! I’m twenty-four!”

“An adult,” Hunk reminded him. “An adult who, if not deeply in love, is at least dealing with a ridiculously massive crush."

Keith spluttered. “Well—”

“I’m right.” 

Keith sighed, long and deep, and slouched lower in his chair. “You’re right,” he repeated, and felt himself turn redder.

“I know. I love you, Keith, you gay trainwreck, and that is why I’m forcing you to do this. Be happy! Go get that dick, or something.” Hunk unfolded his hands and stood up. “Wait, Allura’s been complaining about you skipping shifts to go see Lance. So I’d suggest sticking around until closing. _Then_ go get that dick.”

“Perfect,” Keith deadpanned. “Exactly what I want to do. You’re a genius.”

“Keith!” Allura’s voice rang through the shop. She was on the hunt, probably coming up the Young Adult aisle. 

“Oh no,” Hunk said, monotone. “I seem to have forgotten a shipment of comics in the alley. I will take my leave immediately.” He bolted.

Allura poked her head around a shelf the moment Hunk vanished through the back door. “Hey, how many customers did you get at the counter today?”

Keith tried to remember. _Two old ladies, a guy with six piercings in one ear, a few art college kids, those weird gothy teenage girls who wanted to touch his scrapes, a pair of twins, some middle-aged man who awkwardly hit on him for five minutes before actually ordering…_

“Fifteen, I think.” 

Allura brightened. “Good! We’re on the right track! I’m so glad we got this store back on its feet. I counted at least sixty at the register.” 

“Mm. Want spana-something, uh, spanakopita? Shay made it.”

 _“Yes.”_ Allura hurried over and collapsed in Hunk’s abandoned armchair. She scooped up the box, cradling it like a baby. “Nyma and I went out dancing late yesterday, and I slept in so late I didn’t have time to eat.” She crammed two pieces into her mouth, then said something else at him, unintelligible.

“Huh?”

“I said,” Allura repeated, then stopped because she swallowed the pastry and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. “Oh, God, I need to eat these for the rest of my life.”

“You were saying…” Keith pressed. His leg had started to bounce nervously, foot hammering the floorboards. A preppy-looking uni girl leaned out from the Sci-Fi aisle and admonished him with a finger to her lips. Keith scowled at her, and she retreated.

“Oh! I asked how Lance is doing.”

Keith flushed _again,_ and Allura's gaze grew suspicious. “Did you two fight again?”

“No, I just—I think I’m—” He fell silent, embarrassed, and rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Oh,” Allura said, then _“oh,”_ knowingly. “Did you tell him yet?”

“No. I don’t even think he feels the same way.”

Humming, Allura devoured another piece of spanakopita. She’d just gotten her hair done on a “girl’s day out” trip with Nyma and Shay and a reluctant Pidge, and now it puffed out above her chin in a cool silvery-purple. “Well, you could ask.”

“That’s basically what Hunk said.”

“Hunk’s right.”

“That’s also what Hunk said.”

Allura sat up. “Hey. I know your shift today doesn’t end until closing time, but I’m giving you special permission to go talk to Lance right now, since it’s—” she checked her watch, “already five-thirty. I _might_ have to dock a couple dollars off your paycheck, but hey. If you really need something, you can count on me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive!” Allura gave him one of her dazzling grins. “Hunk’s still here, and Pidge’s apartment is just a couple blocks over if we get a late rush. Go ahead!”

“All my friends are horrible and want to see me crash and burn,” Keith told her.

Allura only winked and shooed him off.

____________________________________

“Where’s the fire?” Lance asked when Keith burst into the shop like a man possessed.

Resisting the strange urge to giggle— _giggle,_ like a preteen girl with her first crush—Keith shrunk back, suddenly shy. “I, uh—”

Lance put his brush down. “Everything okay?” He’d been touching up his little poetry signs, and his hands and face were smeared with deep blue paint. There were even traces of it in his hair, which he’d pushed back for better concentration. Keith’s mouth went dry. 

“Well, it’s just…”

 _“Well, it’s just…”_ Lance mimicked. “What, did you kill somebody? Did you—” His gaze flickered down to Keith’s legs, covered in bandages and dark bruises. “Oh, my God.”

“Bike accident. I’m fine, though.” Keith couldn’t look directly at Lance for another second, or he’d do something stupid like kiss him or declare his undying love. Or punch him. He glanced over at a nearby display. “Hey, are these begonias? They mean deep thinking, right?”

“That, but also caution.” Lance’s mouth tilted down. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” _Not at all, thanks to your face._ “I’ve been doing some of this, uh, deep thinking. Lately.”

Both brows went up. “Uh...okay.”

“And I was wondering,” Keith soldiered on, despite his increasing awareness that he was digging his own grave. “If you...would like to do some deep thinking. With me. Or something.” The back of his neck had surpassed hot and was on its way to burning.

“Or something,” Lance repeated. He scowled. “Are you on drugs?”

Keith graciously took that as his signal to leave. He spun on his heel, but only got a couple steps away before two strong hands clamped down on his shoulders and frog-marched him back to where he’d been. The hands spun him around, but didn’t let go. Lance’s eyes glared into his. Up close, he seemed genuinely concerned, but Keith would’ve appreciated that more if he didn’t feel like he was about to burst into flames. 

“Keith, I swear, if you accidentally became a crack addict in the past eighteen hours, I’ll kill you, and then I’ll come to your funeral and tap-dance on your grave.”

“I’m not on drugs!” Keith wormed out of Lance’s grip, then buried his face in his hands. This was on its way to surpassing every mistake he’d ever made in terms of Absolute Fucking Horribleness, including the time he picked a fight with a senior and couldn’t lay down properly for a month afterward. Probably including every decision he’d made before the age of twenty, actually. “But sometimes I feel like I am, when I’m around you. But, like, on good drugs. There are good drugs, right?”

Was that romantic? He peeked through his fingers. Lance looked unimpressed. Keith sighed and held out a begonia. “Do you want to go up to Aspen Ridge? Watch the sunset again? It’s only six. We can make it.” 

Lance let out a puff of breath, a few stray bangs flying off his forehead. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what this is all about? Keith, you could’ve just said so.”

“Oh.” 

“But yeah. I’ll go with you. Business is slower now that summer’s really over.”

“Cool.” Keith realized he was smiling _way_ too widely. He pulled his face into a more appropriately pleased expression. “We taking the bike?”

“Nah, we’re gonna drive. Too cold to bike, the wind makes your hands go numb.” Lance reached over the counter and brought up a set of keys, twirling them around his finger. “Let’s go have our deep talk!”

Lance’s car was cherry-red, slick despite its age. His cousin’s old one, passed on to him as a university present.

“I kind of expected it to be blue,” Keith said, running a hand over the bright paint. Even in the shadow of Shiro’s garage, it gleamed.

Lance laughed. “Sometimes, you get tired of the same old color. Hey, look at all these dents on the back! I used to be a wild driver when I first started—always accidentally hitting curbs and stuff. A couple years ago I got a really bad...what’s it called?” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t remember the word. Bender something?”

“Fender bender,” Keith supplied, crouching down to examine the crushed metal.

“Right! Hunk scolded me for _days._ He was in the passenger seat at the time, and kept screaming that he was gonna die. Drama queen. But I’m a lot better at it now.”

Repressing a shudder of fear, Keith nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

“Hey!” Nyma jogged up to them. Keith hadn’t seen her around lately, and it stunned him how different she looked: Nyma was always reinventing herself. Her cornrows were dyed silver—probably got it done when Allura did—and there was a brand new piercing twinkling from her nose. She wore lavender overalls rolled around her waist, and a grease-stained t-shirt that said _Shiro’s Mechanics_ on it in blocky orange script.

“Hi. New era?” Keith pointed at the overalls. 

“You know it. I’m going for more of a butch look. Last week was high femme.” She turned to Lance. “Taking the boy for a spin in old Greased Lightning?”

Keith gave Lance a _look._ “Greased Lightning? Really?”

“When I first met him, he was calling it the fucking _Sexus,_ so trust me.” Nyma wrinkled her nose. “This is an improvement. It’s not even a Lexus, so the pun doesn’t work.” 

Lance pretended to keel over. “Nyma, you wound me.”

“That’’s my goal in life,” she said cheerfully. “Hey, don’t spend all night up there. Shiro’s closing early ‘cause he and Allura are going on one of their friend dates—code for getting shitfaced. So you better be back by ten, or else poor Greased Lightning is gonna be homeless for the night. Anyway, I gotta go. I have a Toyota in the back leaking a metric fuckton of gas. Have fu-un, you crazy kids!” 

“That was weird,” Lance said, watching her jog away. He was frowning, lower lip sticking out like it always did when he was deep in thought. “She was acting like we were on a date or something.”

Keith choked on air.

“What’d you say?” Lance turned to him.

“Nothing,” he rasped, giving Lance a smile that he hoped would convey _I’m having so much fun_ and not _I’m on the verge of death also I have an embarrassingly large crush on you._

“Okay, then let’s go!” Lance unlocked the car, then slid into the driver’s seat. “The sun’s already setting!”

____________________________________

The drive had been easy enough. Keith stayed silent and stared out the window, a knot of nerves forming in his stomach. Lance occasionally hummed along to the radio’s soft buzz, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Only when the road turned to gravel did the atmosphere change; both of them sat up straighter, unconsciously mimicking each other. The set of Lance’s shoulders became stiff. Keith slid his hands beneath his thighs and sat on them.

They found a spot to park a few turns of the road higher than their usual lookout, but after a few steps out of the car it was decided it was too cold to stay outside. They’d crawled back into the car, shivering. 

“The heat doesn’t work sometimes,” Lance apologized, poking helplessly at the unresponsive buttons.

“It’s fine.” The sun was nearly gone, but the indigo sky was still shot through with gold and orange. Keith gazed past the windshield at it, shifting anxiously in the faded leather seat. 

“So,” Lance said, “uh, what did you want to talk about? Or ‘think deeply’ about?”

_Right. That._

“I—well, I’m not sure.” He stared down at the bandages over his knees. There was a crimson smudge in the centre of each. “Whatever you want.” His earlier confidence had withered away.

Lance grinned, but there was something cautious around his eyes. “Aliens. Thoughts?”

“Definitely real.”

“Right? We can’t be the only beings in this entire universe.”

As the sun disappeared and the moon took its place, they fumbled through a conversation, Lance speeding through his sentences as if the silence was too much for him to bear, Keith replying, haltingly, in two or three words. The clock on the dashboard seemed to slow down and speed up in bursts; 7:23, 7:45, 7:46, 7:47, 8:15.

“Do you ever—?” Lance began as 8:29 changed to 8:30, leaning towards Keith, but before he finished the sentence, a shadow crossed over his face. He flinched back, frowning. 

“What?”

“Never mind. Dumb question.”

“Lance, you literally asked me if I think rocks have feelings. I’ve heard tons of dumb questions.”

Prodding his bottom lip with the flat of his thumb, Lance asked, “Do you ever think about soulmates? Like, what if every two people are destined to be together? Written in the stars, y’know.”

Keith sighed. “God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about love, let alone soulmates.”

“That’s fine. I just—” Lance’s hand fell open onto the centre console, only a few inches away from Keith’s. “I just feel like maybe it could be true. Like you meet someone, and you just go, _oh, it’s you._ Right away.” He laughed. “This sounds so weird, but can I tell you something kind of personal?”

“Believe me,” Keith replied, sure that Lance could hear the way his heartbeat hammered against his ribs. “We already got personal with our tragic backstories.”

“Oh,” Lance whined, scrunching his face up. “Don’t remind me. That was so embarrassing, I can’t believe I almost cried in front of you.” He tipped his head back to stare at the roof, the elegant line of his neck exposed. His pinky was brushing the edge of Keith’s wrist now, the nerve endings there aflame. “But I’m glad I did tell you. Now we’re team Fucked Up Childhood.” 

Color rising to his cheeks, he spoke more softly. “Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is, I think I might, uh, be in love.”

For the hundredth time today, Keith’s mouth went dry. “Oh. T-that’s—”

“Yeah. I’ve been pretty sure of it for a little while now, and I think that they might feel the same way. I had a couple girlfriends, a boyfriend, in uni, but man. I think this is like, the real thing.”

“Well, um, congrats?” Keith offered, refusing to let his voice tremble. “I think you should tell them.” 

“Really?” Lance’s eyes glittered brighter than he’d ever seem them before.

“Sure. Hope they return, uh, your affections.” Slumping down in his seat, Keith glanced out the window. _Fuck._ So, Lance wasn’t in love with him. Big deal.

_(Huge deal. Horrible deal.)_

Lance wasn’t responding, though, so he turned around. 

His face looked crumpled; sad, distorted, like a sad parody. His mouth hung slightly open, surprised, and his eyes drained of their usual gleam. 

“You okay?”

“I,” Lance tried. He studied Keith intently.“I don’t—I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“I thought I made it clear—oh, _shit._ Damn it.” Lance covered his mouth with both hands, then ran them through his hair. “Shit,” he repeated, heels hitting the bottom of his seat. 

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Somewhere at the back of Keith’s mind: a tiny spark of hope. He tried to reach over, put a hand on Lance’s shoulder, but he was shaken off. 

“This is so _stupid,”_ Lance spat, his fists clenching and unclenching, white-knuckled. He was curled into himself, as if he were about to snap in half. “This is just—”

“If you could tell me what the fuck you’re talking about,” Keith retorted, “I don’t know, maybe I could _help you?_ Instead of you trying to deal with it all alone? Just a thought.” 

“You don’t know me at all!” Lance whirled on him, eyes like twin blue fires in his face. “This isn’t your place, Keith, I’m not here ‘cause I wanna play friendship—” 

“Well, if you’d _let_ me know you, that wouldn’t be an—” 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Lance cried, his voice breaking on the last syllable. “Don’t you know I’m in love with you?”

There are moments in one’s life, although few and far between, where the world seems to open wide, everything one wants in that moment laid out right in front of them. And if one only reaches out, only says a few words, they’ll have it all— 

But, of course, no one ever does. Such is the nature of humans. We all falter, and fall back, and then the world shuts again, leaving us breathless.

Keith watched the world come undone from Lance’s words, and he watched it close up as Lance wiped at his mouth and stared straight ahead. His shoulders were drawn up like they were protecting his neck.

The radio finally died out, and the only sound left in the car was Lance’s unsteady breathing. 

“I,” Lance said hoarsely, and in the weak moonlight, his face was achingly delicate, blown open and afraid. Something folded up behind his eyes. He wasn’t so much a person as he was made of paper. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t—” Keith ventured. His nails were digging into the soft centre of his palms. Lance cut him off.

“I just, I needed to say that. I’m,” Lance swallowed the way people do when they’re trying not to cry. “Just brush it off. Or tell me that you love me, too, just say something. Please.”

“I—” 

“You’re untouchable,” Lance said, as if he was trying to convince himself. As if Keith hadn’t thought of Lance as that, too, ever since they met. But he didn’t reply, he just watched Lance’s hands tremble against the steering wheel. 

“It’s crazy, y’know, ‘cause I used to think—” Lance laughed bitterly, swinging his feet up to rest on the dashboard. “I used to think I had a chance with you. That somehow you could feel the same way about me. I’ve been wrong before, though.” He tilted his head back, eyes fixed on the dark sky. “Been wrong so many times it’s easy to get over it now.”

“You’re not.” Every word felt like it could shatter.

Lance still wouldn’t face him. “Not what?”

Keith thought about Lance’s easy, sprawling smile and his fingers, awkwardly graceful, strumming the strings of his guitar and sweeping gently over his plants. The way Lance looked at him sometimes, eyes glittering with delight and something more, something _aching_ that Keith had hardly understood until now. The hidden flowers, a tiny, heartbreaking message in handwriting that was all too familiar—

 _“Camellia blossoms,”_ Lance had said, so long ago. _“Every colour of camellia has a different meaning. These ones are white, which usually means purity. But since these are specifically for a funeral, they stand for mourning. If they’re pink, that means longing or desire, and combining them with red—passion—symbolizes romantic love for someone.”_

As much as Keith had wanted to deny it, it was indisputable that those flowers—the camellias—were from Lance.

And that Lance really had meant it when he’d told Keith he loved him.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “Not—not this time. About me. And you.” 

Lance went quiet. His expression was oddly calm, the frustrated lines of his face smoothing out. “Oh.”

Even though he knew Lance wouldn’t see, Keith nodded. 

The world opened up again, just a crack.

Lance ran his fingers through his hair. Breathed in and out. “Shit,” he said finally. “Now I have to do this. Been practicing for weeks, but didn’t think I’d get to say it this soon.”

“Do what?” Keith demanded, but Lance was already looking away, back up at the sky. A few stars were scattered across the horizon.

 _“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,”_ he recited, pushing his sneakers anxiously against the glove compartment. His accent was a little heavier, probably from nerves. _“I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride—”_

Keith nearly interrupted him, but all his questions were forgotten as Lance continued to speak, his voice becoming steadier, softer, slower.

_“So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”_

The car was quiet for a few seconds after, ringing with white-hot surprise, as if Lance’s words had broken something open inside the both of them.

Keith cleared his throat. “What was that?” 

“Neruda,” Lance replied, staring down at his hands. “It sounds better in Spanish, but, y’know.”

“It still sounded good. Really—wow.” Keith paused, trying to figure out what to say to this tentative, moonlit version of Lance. 

This version of Lance that loved—God, _loved_ —him. 

“Thank you. And...and thanks for the camellias.”

“Ah. The—” Lance’s gaze finally landed on Keith. “You _found_ them?”

Keith swallowed, hardly daring to move. “Yeah.”

 _“Shit,”_ Lance muttered, and he’d barely said the word before he unbuckled his seatbelt and crawled over the center console to lean over Keith and cup his jaw in desperate hands, one knee pressing between Keith’s thighs, the other digging into his right hip.

Lance’s eyes shone through the darkness. “Is this all right? Do—”

“Would you,” Keith muttered, a streak of bravery surging through him, _“please_ just kiss me already?”

“Fuck,” Lance said. “Fuck, okay,” and he tilted Keith’s chin up and did.

His lips were soft, softer than Keith had imagined, and he clutched like a drowning man—gasping and murmuring and tilting his head to deepen this kiss, which wasn’t even square on the mouth, but lining things up would take too long. Keith pulled him as close as humanly possible, licked right into his open mouth, and felt Lance nearly collapse against him, breath hot on his neck. 

“Jesus,” Keith said, very quietly, and he might’ve said something else, but he could hardly remember anything after seeing the way Lance’s chin hung forward, like his mouth didn’t want to stray from Keith’s. He looked more like himself now, more solid and eager, eyes hyper-bright. 

There was actual _steam_ on the windows, like the beginning of a slasher movie. _I’m living a cliché,_ Keith thought.

Keith smoothed a hand across the back of Lance’s neck, lips pressed just above the neckline of his shirt, rolled his knuckles over the top of Lance’s spine. Lance went completely still, but his skin was hot beneath Keith’s fingers, pulse jackrabbit-fast.

“I won’t hurt you,” Keith promised. “I’m just—”

Lance dipped his head and kissed him again, cupping his face in both hands this time. 

It blew Keith’s _mind,_ really, that someone like Lance wanted him this much, that he ever did in the first place.

And Lance was so pliable, so hungry that Keith barely acknowledged the fear curling low in his stomach. He was way, _way_ over his head here; Lance bit at his lower lip, hands warm and confident on Keith’s neck, Keith’s jaw, the back of Keith’s head, rolling his hips like it was his _mission,_ or something, to— _oh, okay,_ Lance moved down to his throat, and Keith felt his eyes roll back, and he didn’t think about anything for a long, long time.

____________________________________

It was exactly ten o’clock when they pulled into the garage. The air inside the car was electric, and every inch of Keith felt radioactive. His hands, his lips. He could feel his heartbeat all the way down to his toes. Lance’s mouth was swollen, and his hair was tousled, and Keith thought, _I did that to him._

They hadn’t done more than kiss, not enough to count at least, but Keith had come out of it like he’d been whiplashed. That had been his first kiss. First _anything_ —it sounded ridiculous, coming from someone his age, but no one had ever made him feel like that before Lance. 

And now Lance was unlocking the door like it was nothing, like he’d already gotten over everything that happened. “See you tomorrow?” 

His voice was _wrecked,_ rasping across the syllables like it hurt; the first words he’d said since they left the ridge, and Keith wanted to pull him back into the car, into the backseat, and not let him go until the sun came up.

Across the garage, he could see Shiro in his office, turning out the lights.

“Yeah.” It came out sharper than he meant it to be. “Tomorrow.” 

He undid his seatbelt and got out. Lance looked over at him from across the top of the car, eyes hooded. He was illuminated, butane-blue, by the fluorescent overhead lights. Chin tipped up and to the side, like it did when he was kissing Keith. “‘Night,” he said, the same way he said _I'm in love with you._

“I,” Keith tried. He wanted to just say it outright, but the uncertainty in Lance’s gaze made him falter. “Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from _this modern love_ by bloc party.
> 
> YEAH FOLKS....THEY DID THAT
> 
> okay so! writer's block is a bitch, sorry!! the last half of this chapter was really hard to write, and i'm still not totally satisfied with it so there might be a few edits made in the coming days. also school and life got So in the way of my writing, but to make it up to u all the next update should be in around 2 weeks instead of a whole fuckin month!!
> 
> again: hope u enjoyed, next update will be Wild, i thrive off comments and kudos!


	10. careful fear, dead devotion

Fourteen hours ago, Lance had kissed him. 

Twelve hours ago, Keith walked home in the freezing night air, every inch of him electrified. 

Eleven hours ago, he’d stared at the ceiling in the darkness, Lance’s mouth and hands and eyes seared into the back of his mind. 

One minute ago, he finally dragged himself out of bed. He hadn’t slept for even a moment. Standing up felt like walking out of the mist of one dream into another. Like his body was barely his own. He brought his fingers up to his lips, pretended that they were still tingling, traced their unusual upturn.

In the bathroom mirror, his reflection wouldn’t stop smiling, even around a mouthful of toothpaste. His jaw was starting to ache.

 _Love_ sounded funny on his tongue. But that’s what it was, wasn’t it? It felt big and weird and beautiful—sunshine stuffed inside him. He checked his messages—one meme he didn’t understand from Hunk, one reminder that he was working late today from Allura. There were a couple ‘good morning’ texts from Shiro and Keith replied with a smiley face just for the hell of it. Seconds later, another text came in.

 **shir-bro:** _Keith are you okay? I’m concerned._  
**keef:** _all good! :)_  
**shir-bro:** _oh dear god_  
**shir-bro:** _Did the caffeine finally work its magic? Is Allura on a New Age kick again?_  
**shir-bro:** _Keith, if Pidge offered you weed, DO NOT TAKE IT_  
**shir-bro:** _I bought some off her a while ago, it’s awful_  
**keef:** _i promise i’m fine and sober. seriously. i’m just kinda in a good mood_  
**shir-bro:** _OH that’s great then!_  
**shir-bro:** _Want me to come over during your shift? Nyma brought a ton of donuts over but it’s just us and Ulaz and Slav this week_  
**keef:** _sure, see you then_  
**shir-bro:** _Say no to drugs! ___

____

Keith set his phone down and washed his face properly for the first time in days. “I’m in love with Lance,” he told the quiet apartment. 

Was it weird to have fallen in love for the first time at 24? He was _not_ going to google that. Instead, he wandered back into the bedroom in search of wearable clothes. 

After digging through piles of sweatshirts and dusty socks, he unearthed a vaguely douchey-looking black tank top and a clean-ish pair of jeans and put them on. Maybe he needed to go buy some cologne. _Absolutely not,_ the logical part of his brain told him. Keith kind of wished that the logical part of his brain was bigger. A lot bigger. For the past few months, he’d been mostly functioning on the primitive lizard-y part, the one that made him think about Lance too much.

Briefly mourning his completely obliterated bike, he threw a sweater on, jammed his feet into his sneakers—he hadn’t bothered to untie them last night—and headed out. 

He’d barely noticed how weak the sun was, how quiet it was outside, until he stepped outside. _Shit._ It was just past _nine,_ and his shift didn’t start until one. As if the tips of his toes were magnetic, Keith turned in the direction of In Bloom. 

He made a stop, first, at the park a couple blocks south of the main strip. Hunted around in the long grasses bordering the playground at the centre, unearthed a few surviving wildflowers. They were pretty, if a bit weakened by the cool air, but it wouldn’t do to buy flowers from the same person he was giving them to.

Since autumn was nearing its cold side, there were no displays out front anymore, except for a couple pots of jasmine, which Lance said could survive all the way through the winter. He’d talked about building a tiny greenhouse underneath the skylight in the back room for summer flowers, but it was clear business was going to be slow until the holidays. 

Something about the shop usually made Keith hesitant to enter, but not today. A gust of cold wind followed him inside, first pushing the door flat against the wall, then slamming it shut. 

Lance was kneeling by a wilting display of ferns, just across from the back counter, one slender hand extended towards it. He was whispering as if he were trying to coax a child to go to sleep, gaze focused, ankles crossed behind him. When he shifted his head, the light caught on today’s earrings: delicate silver vines, winding in tight loops around his ear.

“Um,” Keith tried, watching him carefully. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Lance went back to staring at the ferns. The silence was unbearable. 

Keith glanced away. “So, uh—”

“This is _ridiculous,”_ Lance interrupted, and before Keith could even meet his eyes again, there were shoes squeaking across the floorboards and a warm hand lifting his jaw up and Lance was kissing him. 

Keith dropped the wildflowers and kissed him back, pulling Lance down to his level by the front of his apron.

It was messy and impulsive, electric on his tongue. Lance’s hands gripped his shoulders, slid up to curling into his hair, to flatten against the nape of his neck. His wrist pressed to the side of Keith’s throat, pulse jumping hard enough that Keith could feel it inside him. Although Lance often seemed delicate, with his tall skinny lines and soft footsteps, he was impossibly strong and warm and solid up close. 

They broke apart, and Keith saw that Lance’s expression almost certainly mirrored his. He wanted, for a wild moment, to put him in a picture frame, and keep him like that forever, soft-mouthed and wide-eyed. 

“I,” Lance said softly, so soft it twisted Keith’s heart. “I don’t—I don’t want to keep running away from you.” His hand came up, the pad of his thumb brushing over Keith’s bottom lip, knuckles resting gently on the side of his face. Keith faltered, felt his head dip into the touch, felt Lance’s fingers uncurl and splay over his cheek.

 _Jesus._ He needed to get himself together.

“I don’t want,” Lance tried again, his words a little shakier, “you to, either. Run away, I mean. Do you—” he stopped, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

“What?”

“We can, um, talk.” Lance mumbled. “Upstairs. If you want. We can make breakfast.” He untied his apron and tossed it over a ceramic birdbath. 

“Right,” Keith said. “Yeah. Sure.”

Cooking, it quickly became clear, was _not_ Keith’s forte. After he accidentally smashed an egg and dumped it, shell and all, into the frying pan, Lance pronounced him as ‘thoroughly useless’ and shooed him away. He leaned against the counter a little ways away, watching Lance flip bacon and stir up some odd cream-tomato sauce, then toss everything together with a precise hand. 

“Did you just put bacon and refried beans into the same pan?” Keith cast a doubtful gaze over the mixture.

“Y’know us Latinos,” Lance drawled, dumping in a teaspoon of spice. “Fuckin’ love our beans. This is a, um,” he paused to think, “a rustic, deconstructed breakfast scramble.” 

“Code for you haven’t gone grocery shopping in weeks.” 

Frowning, Lance cracked a few eggs in, crushing the shells effortlessly in one hand. Keith let himself marvel at that for a moment, then continued, “Okay, okay, I won’t insult your cooking anymore. I’m sure it’s better than instant noodles.”

“Dear God, never say those words to me again.” Lance shuddered. “Those things have, like, a thousand calories in them.” He sprinkled cheese and poured the sauce over it all, then scooped a massive portion onto Keith’s plate. “Ta-da!”

Keith watched it jiggle ominously. Lance handed him a fork. “It’s not poisoned, jeez.”

“Why should I trust you?” Keith pretended to threaten him, jabbing the fork menacingly.

Lance leaned over and planted a kiss on his forehead. “‘That’s why.”

Keith’s brain short-circuited, and he nearly dropped the plate. 

Heat spread fast over his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears and down to the base of his neck—even his hands turned pink. Eyes widening, Lance beamed. “That is so _cute._ You’re so cute.”

Again, Keith’s brain short-circuited. _Lance thinks I’m cute._ Ducking his head in embarrassment, he took a bite of the scramble. 

“Well?” Lance scooped the rest onto his own plate. “Gross as you imagined it’d be?”

Despite his earlier misgivings, Keith found that it was good, rich and cheesy, with all the ingredients somehow working together perfectly. Maybe too much bacon for his liking, but what the hell, who was he to judge. “I’ll never eat instant noodles again,” he concluded.

“Marry me, and I’ll make you this every morning,” Lance said, reaching over to turn the stove off. Keith momentarily forgot how to chew.

 _“What,”_ he nearly squeaked. 

“Joking. Mostly.” 

“Right.” Maybe if Keith concentrated hard enough, he’d melt into the floor and not have to deal with thoughts of _Lance holding out a ring_ and _Lance walking down the aisle towards him_ and _cakes with two groom figurines on top_ and—

“Hang on,” Lance said suddenly. He put his plate aside. “Can I kiss you again?”

 _Fuck._ Keith’s vocal cords had somehow stopped working, so he nodded instead.

This time, Lance kissed him like he wasn’t sure how to: fingers light, cupping Keith’s chin nervously. Their bodies close but not touching, not quite. Mouths half-open, tentative, smiling. The kiss at the ridge had been desperate, the one downstairs had been frustrated and hurried. This was softer, uncertain, clumsy. Lance’s cold silver rings pressed into Keith’s cheek, making him shiver, and their teeth kept clacking together like they were teenagers in the basement at a party, hopeless and giddy but more than a little in love.

It was perfect.

It had taken Keith all of twenty-four years to get here.

 _Worth it,_ he thought, then promptly jarred his spine against the fridge. He hadn’t noticed how the two of them had stumbled so far back. 

“Ah,” Lance murmured, his hand dancing along the back of Keith’s neck, tangling in the ends of his hair. “The food’s probably getting cold.”

“Don't move yet,” Keith told him, and kissed him again, slower this time. 

The food did get cold, but they took it to the table and ate it anyway, and Lance put on a jazz record and it was _nice,_ being all weirdly domestic. Keith could get used to it.

They’d been sitting in silence for a little while, when he finally decided to bite the bullet.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Mm.” Lance’s palms were folded prayer-like, holding his chin up. He looked sleepy. Keith wanted more than anything to reach out, to pull him right over the table and kiss him, but he needed to do this. 

“I’m not sure,” he began, watching the neckline of Lance’s shirt slip a little as he leaned forward, the edge of his collarbone peeking out. “I’m not sure about a lot of things.” 

He stared down at his knees. “But I _am_ —I mean, I think, I am sure about this. About—” he glanced back up. “About you.”

“Oh, _Keith—”_

“Sometimes I forget what it’s like to feel...to feel like a real person,” Keith barreled on, palms sweating as he gripped the sides of the chair. “But I don’t forget when you’re around.” 

It was silent for a moment. Keith swallowed, hard, and— 

“I love you.” 

It had seemed so difficult to say, the words heavy at the tip of his tongue, but it wasn’t.

It was the easiest thing in the world.

______________________________________________

“Where the hell were you?” Pidge looked up from her book. Keith had just rushed in, five minutes late, and was attempting to make himself a cup of coffee, put on his apron, and tie his hair back all at once. 

“Lance’s,” Keith replied, breathless. “He made a really good breakfast, and we hung out for a while. Then—” 

“Oh, no,” Pidge said, covering her ears with her hands. “I’m glad you’re in love, but, like, if I have to hear about what Lance sounds like during sex my brain will turn to mush and start leaking out of my precious child ears.”

Keith’s hand slipped into the steaming mug. Instead of firing back at Pidge like he normally would, he let out a stream of curses and reeled back, wiping his palm on the front of his apron.

Shiro winced sympathetically. Perched in the floral armchair across from Pidge, his bulky frame seemed out of place. “Here, have a donut. Pidge took most of the jam ones, but there’s still chocolate and glazed left.”

“No thanks.” Keith put his sore fingertips in his mouth for a second, trying to leech the heat out. “I only like the cinnamon kind.”

“Well, fucking Slav ate all of those yesterday. I know he’s like, old, or whatever, but I still want to wring his neck sometimes.”

“You know,” Pidge interjected, sounding a little lost in thought, “the first time I fell in love was in grade eight.”

“Oh, god.” Shiro dropped his head into his hands. “Here we go.”

“Shush! Anyway, there was this girl, Stephanie something. Super tall, on the softball team, always wore her hair in two really tight braids. I was _nuts_ about her. I invited her to my bat mitzvah, and afterwards we had a challah-eating contest.” Pidge sighed wistfully. “Too bad I didn’t come out until high school. Although she did marry this Mormon guy like last year when we were fresh out of uni and became one of those hyper-religious mommy bloggers. So I never really had a chance. Sometimes I get recommended her Instagram page and every post is like ‘Jesus loves you unless you’re gay, please come to our church bake sale next weekend’.”

Keith grimaced and tipped back his mug.

“How did last night go with him?” Shiro asked suddenly. “I saw you guys pull into the garage, but you didn’t come over.”

Keith tried to answer with his mouth still full of coffee, and promptly choked on it. He leaned over the counter, on the verge of coughing up a lung.

“Do you need help? I'm CPR-certified.” Shiro was half out of his seat, eyebrows knit together with concern. Pidge cackled maniacally.

“No, no,” Keith managed to wheeze out. “I’m fine. It was fine.” He coughed again, and groaned, resting his forehead against the cool granite. “Ugh.”

“Did you hit that?” 

“Pidge, shut the fuck up. Shiro says you sell shitty weed.”

She screeched and whirled on Shiro, who looked terrified despite the fact he was at least three heads taller and twice as wide. “I do _not.”_

Subdued, Shiro mimed zipping his lips and picked up another glazed donut. 

Just then, a small, freckled girl poked her head out of one of the aisles and glared at them. “You said a bad word,” she told Keith, pointing an accusatory finger at him. 

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. I’m gonna tell the cashier lady you did. And my mama.” She walked right up to him, still glaring, and planted her feet stubbornly. 

“What if I gave you a free blueberry muffin?”

The girl considered this.

“Okay,” she said.

Keith fished the last muffin, courtesy of Shay, out of the display case and handed it to her. The girl’s eyes widened, and she hurried away.

“You still need to work on your customer service skills,” Shiro said, once she was out of earshot. “You can’t just bribe people with food whenever you feel like it.”

Keith looked pointedly at the box of donuts. Shiro let out a long-suffering sigh. “Anyway, was it good?”

“Mm. We went up to Aspen Ridge and talked for a while.”

“Wow,” Pidge interjected. “That’s like, second base for you.”

Gracefully, Keith extended his middle finger and brandished it at her. She pretended to shrink away in fear, then crawled out of her chair to go take over for Allura at the cash register.

“Are you two...official?” Shiro gazed at him, curious.

“Um. Well. Sort of. I think.”

“Sort of?”

“I don’t know.” Keith ran his finger through a pile of spilled sugar, tracing circles in it. “It’s weird. Should I ask him first?”

Shiro shrugged. “Sorry. I’m awful with romantic advice, as you know. But I think if Lance needs that little extra push, you can help him out, you know? Me and Matt always end up encouraging each other to take chances, even though both of us are pretty shy when it comes to stuff like this.”

“Huh. Maybe I’ll do that.” He smiled. “Thanks, Shiro.”

Falling back in the armchair, Shiro gasped. “Did Keith Kogane just smile at me? Have I fallen into some alternate reality?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

_____________________________________________

That night, Keith was on the verge of falling asleep when his phone lit up with message notifications, three in quick succession. The number was vaguely familiar, but there was no name attached to it. 

_keith_

_this is so so cheesy but like_

_can i send you things that remind me of u?_

He’d never added Lance’s number Keith changed the contact name to _Lance._ He paused, then put a heart emoji next to it. 

Five seconds later, he removed the heart, because of anyone saw it, he would instantly die of humiliation.

He typed out: _sure._

Then deleted it and put _yeah._

But that sounded like he was bored, or like he didn’t care, so he deleted that and simply sent _of course._

Then, almost instantly, a handful of links. Keith opened every one: all poetry, from dozens of different authors. Lines jumped out at him:

_We two boys together clinging._

_i carry your heart with me (i carry it in  
my heart)_

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

__

_Yes, I do believe  
his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars._

_You are the summer of the seven-year locusts.  
You are so much that it’s breaking my heart._

_Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”_  
_somewhere else I am saying_  
_“I never want to be without you again.”_

_I love what I do not have. You are so far._

Keith read them over and over, and fell asleep with his phone clutched to his chest.

_____________________________________________

All through the week, Keith felt jumping out of his skin. Like _burning._ Like every day without seeing Lance was a wasted one. Lines of poetry ran through his head nonstop. 

Finally, six days after Aspen Ridge, Lance opened his apartment door with a smile and a homemade cinnamon latte in one hand. Keith barely gave him enough time to say hello before crossing the threshold and throwing his arms around Lance’s neck.

“Kiss me,” he said, his lips dragging over Lance’s cheek. His own voice seemed far away to him, like he was on autopilot. Then he added, “please,” softer, and felt Lance relax against him.

Lance tipped his jaw up, looked at him carefully, before setting the latte down, leaning in, and pushing their mouths together. Keith still wasn’t quite used to it, the way things flared up in his stomach like the universe was sealing itself shut and imploding. He wanted to make a home inside Lance’s ribcage, live his entire life hearing Lance’s beautiful heartbeat.

When they pulled apart, Keith was more than a little out of breath and felt more stable, almost tender. Like his soul had been wrung out to dry. 

But Lance had hardly moved, his chin still tilted upwards, as if chasing the kiss for a little longer. “Do you want—” He glanced over his shoulder. Keith followed his gaze to the bed, every blanket and pillow looking for all the world like a harbinger of doom, and his heart dropped like a stone into his stomach. 

“Yeah,” he lied, even though his brain, every muscle, every bone in his body shouted _No._ “I do.”

Then Lance’s eyes went dark, and Keith felt like he was drowning. And still he let Lance pull him across the room, push him down, run his hands up under his shirt, over the scars on his stomach, and it was only when Lance started undoing the zipper on his jeans that— 

He could’ve sworn he’d screamed, because why else would his breath leave him so sharply, why else would his throat dry up and his lungs hurt so badly?

Lance’s voice floated in and out of his ears, muttering _breathe_ and _honey_ and then _Keith _and _fuck, what’s going on—___

____

____

____

____

“Sorry,” Keith gasped, clutching at the bedsheets, “sorry, sorry, sorry,” like a mantra. He scrambled away from Lance, curling his legs up in front of him, pulling his jeans back up with shaking fingers.

Lance looked completely crushed. “W-what did I do? Keith?”

“I, um.” Keith tried to regulate his breathing, come back to himself. “I lied, I’m sorry. I-I can’t do it.”

Dropping his gaze to his knees, Lance said “Oh,” so quietly Keith almost missed it. A chilly breeze swept in through the open window, lifting his hair up. His face was blown open, concerned but disappointed, and guilt twisted a knife into Keith’s side.

“Maybe another time,” he started, “I think I’m just nervous,” but Lance grabbed his hand to stop him. Keith hadn’t realized how tightly he was clenching his fists: the knuckles were bone-white. 

“It’s okay, Keith. I get it.” His eyes were nothing but kind. “Look, I swear I won’t force you into anything. You could’ve just told me in the first place.” 

A lump formed in Keith’s throat. He swallowed hard, and nodded instead of crying, like he wanted to. He’d cried so embarrassingly often in the past couple months that it had become almost a reflex, and it wasn’t like he didn’t _want _Lance, but the idea of someone touching him like that, seeing him vulnerable like that—it terrified him.__

__

____

“I can wait, you know,” Lance said simply. “I can wait forever, if that’s what you want.”

This time, Keith kissed him first.

__________________________________________________ _ _

_____ _

___They were lying in Lance’s bed, their legs flung over each other, faint strains of piano emanating from the record player, when Lance brought it up._ _ _

___“We’re gonna—” he stopped, scraping his fingers through his hair. “We’re...you and me?” He laughed, nervous, a little breathy. His shoulder pressed into Keith’s. “I mean, do you want to make it,” gesturing between them, “official, I guess. You know.”_ _ _

___“Oh.” Keith blinked at him, feeling a little dumbstruck. “Um.”_ _ _

___“No, no, forget it. We don’t have to make it, like. A thing.” Cheeks darkening, Lance hid his face in the dolphin pillow. “Forget it,” he repeated, muffled against the blue fabric._ _ _

___Keith swallowed. “What if I want to make it a thing?”_ _ _

___One blue eye peeked out. “You do?”_ _ _

___“Yeah.”_ _ _

Lance reached up and cupped the side of his face, the cool silver rings pressing against his cheek. _God,_ Keith loved it when he did that, loved it so much it freaked him out a little. Maybe it was some weird obscure fetish only Pidge knew about. 

___Anyways. Lance was talking. “Can I ask you, then?”_ _ _

___“Mm.”_ _ _

___“Keith Kogane, do you want to be my boyfriend?”_ _ _

___He said it so _casually._ Keith was going to die of heart palpitations over this boy, he really was. “Y-yeah. Yes. Yeah.”_ _ _

___“Very emphatic.” Lance pushed Keith’s bangs out of his face. “Like I said, charming.”_ _ _

___“I love you,” Keith told him, because there was nothing else truer._ _ _

___“I know,” Lance replied, doing a strikingly accurate impression of Harrison Ford. He waggled his eyebrows and grinned at Keith, who rolled his eyes._ _ _

___“Corny.”_ _ _

___Lance leaned over and kissed him again. “You don’t have to be Leia. You can be Lando, or Chewie, or Boba Fett, or Greedo or whoever else Han Solo probably had a thing with.”_ _ _

___“Luke,” Keith replied, smiling against the corner of Lance’s mouth. “I’ll be your Luke Skywalker. I’ll cross the universe with you.”_ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from _don't swallow the cap_ by the national.
> 
> the lines from poems that lance sends keith are from (in order): _leaves of grass_ by walt whitman, _i carry your heart with me_ by e.e. cummings, _how do i love thee_ by elizabeth barrett browning, _saying your names_ by richard siken, _i love you_ by shinji moon, _other lives and dimensions and finally a love poem_ by bob hicok, and _here i love you_ by pablo neruda. all lovely pieces of work i highly recommend!
> 
> SORRY GUYS some Big Life Things happened this month and i had almost no time to write! but i promise yall i will give you a bomb-ass epilogue chapter in just a little while!
> 
> reminder that i love love Love comments & kudos!! hope u all enjoy


	11. something that everybody needs

_six months later_

“There,” Lance huffs, setting down the last box and flopping on top of it. “Done at last.”

Keith nudges him with the tip of his sneaker. “You’re blocking the doorway.”

Groaning, Lance slides off the box, letting Keith step over his sprawled legs and into his apartment.

Well, _their_ apartment. 

Lance was the one who suggested it, about three weeks earlier. They were sitting in his bed, drinking spiked hot chocolate and watching the late-March snowstorm, when he’d put down his mug and said, “Wanna come live with me?”

Keith spilled his drink all over his sweatshirt. 

After he’d changed into one of Lance’s ugly Snuggies and crawled back into bed, still smelling like chocolate and brandy, Lance said, “Well, it’d be easier, right? You could eat better food than boxed mac ‘n cheese, for one. And I get lonely a lot. And we wouldn’t have to do rock-paper-scissors to decide whose house to go to every time we have sex.”

Keith had groaned and swatted his arm.

(That _had_ been getting tiring. Keith let Lance win on purpose most of the time, because his mattress made annoying squeaking noises and it was really hard to feel turned on when it sounded like a rubber duck was trapped under the bedsheets.

Lance didn’t really seem to mind, though.

He was unusually quiet, almost thoughtful, during sex, only making soft noises when he was on the edge. Keith, on the other hand, was annoyingly vocal—to his own ears, at least. Lance told him not to worry about it, but every time Keith opened his mouth in bed he wanted to smack himself. 

On the whole, it was nice. Just... _nice._ It had taken them a long time to get from Point A to Point B, and sometimes Keith would still feel all jumpy and sick inside and they’d have to stop before he had a panic attack, but Lance was patient, never pushing him farther than he wanted to go. 

To Keith, the best part was getting to look at Lance, all glittering eyes and warm skin and lean muscle. He had freckles all over his chest and a mole on his left hip. Keith was nervous about taking his shirt off, the first time, but Lance reassured him that his scars looked cool. “Like a warrior,” he’d said, and danced his fingers over them, watching Keith’s stomach flex at the sensation.)

So Keith had mulled it over for a couple days, then agreed. Within a week, he was packing up his belongings and handing the key back over to Allura and even going bed shopping with Lance, like they were some domestic suburban couple. Although jumping on every mattress in the store to test its bounciness wasn’t very domestic or suburban of them.

“Hey.” Lance snaps him out of his thoughts, his hand flopping limply in the air. “Help me.”

“No way.” Keith redoes his ponytail. It’s gotten too long, really, almost down to his shoulders. Shiro offered to cut it for him, but the man can’t even draw a straight line, so. Not an option. 

“I think I broke my back,” Lance whines, mashing the side of his face into the floor. “Jesus, did you put the entire apartment in that one box?”

“It’s just clothes. You’re too scrawny is all.” Keith walks over and helps Lance up, first to his knees, then to his feet, and wraps one arm around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Hell no,” Lance boasts, his lips brushing along Keith’s cheekbone. “I’m _shredded.”_ He pulls away and does a muscle pose, then winces. “Ow.”

“Okay, tough guy.” Keith tips his chin up. This time it’s his mouth Lance meets, and little firecrackers go off inside Keith’s brain. It never ceases to amaze him how odd and wonderful it feels when Lance kisses him, like champagne bubbling inside his stomach.

Oh, God, he _loves_ Lance, more than anything—and needs him, too, like a part of himself he can’t do without, needs him as naturally as his skin and bones need to kiss to keep him together.

Lance brings Keith’s fingers up to his lips. His hair is a little bit ruffled, a sparrow’s feathers after flight.

 _I’m all yours,_ Keith thinks, and is surprised by the truth of it.

____________________________________

_two months later_

Shay’s wearing a ring. 

It’s a simple band, silver with a small opal on the front, but Keith is dumbstruck. “Holy shit,” he whispers, gazing at it. “Did Hunk—”

Shay nods, biting her lip to conceal a smile. “Yesterday.”

“Holy _shit,”_ Lance echoes. “He didn’t even tell me! What happened? How?”

“We were out at dinner. This really classy Moroccan place across town. I think a tiny part of me knew what was coming, ‘cause Hunk can’t keep a secret to save his life.” Shay giggles. “There were rose petals scattered all over our table, and he even got the live band to serenade us. And then after we were done the main course, he started getting really fidgety and was like, ‘You need to order _this_ dessert’ and I was like, ‘No, I’m full, thank you.’ He started begging me to order it, like got down on his knees and everything.”

Lance snorts. “Classic.”

“I gave in after a bit because I was starting to catch on. I pretended to be grumpy about it to please him, though. It came in one of those chocolate shells, y’know? And the waiter poured this hot caramel sauce on it to break it open. But,” Shay shakes her head, “I didn’t see the ring. So I started eating, thinking like maybe it was at the bottom or something? And Hunk and the waiter were just _staring_ at me, completely horrified.”

“Oh my god." Keith covers his face. "I can't hear this."

“Then I bit right into something hard. I almost screamed. Hunk looked like he was going to pass out. I spit out the thing, and guess what. _I’d just bitten the jewel off of my engagement ring.”_

“I’m sure this is all very interesting,” Rax says, poking his head into the kitchen, “but we’ve still got nine customers here, and closing time is in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah, coming,” Shay replies, waving him off. “So what ended up happening is the waiter brought over superglue and we glued the ring back together, and Hunk proposed right away. His muscles were too weak from anxiety for him to get up, and he was crying so much I could barely understand him, but I said yes! And that I still love my ring, even if it is superglued.” She wiggles her finger around, letting the band catch the light from the bread oven. “So we’re engaged!”

“Jesus,” Lance says. “That’s—that’s _something._ When’s the wedding?”

“Not sure. Next spring, maybe. We’ve started inviting people already, though! You two can come, right?”

“Definitely,” Keith replies, squeezing Lance’s hand.

“Amazing!” Shay grins. “Well, I’ve got to help my idiot brother with our last customers. Have a good evening!”

She darts out of the kitchen, calling, “There’s cinnamon biscotti in the fridge if you two want some!”

 _“Damn,”_ Lance says after a moment. “They’re getting married? Already?”

Keith gets up and digs through the fridge. “I don’t see why it’s weird.” He unearths the plate of biscotti and passes it over to Lance. “I mean, my parents got married when my mom was twenty-one and my dad was twenty-four.” 

“I know, it’s just—we all still seem so young. Pidge is still in university, and Shiro’s the oldest, but he’s only thirty. It freaks me out.” Lance takes a bite of the cookie and closes his eyes in delight. _“God,_ eating this kinda makes me wish I was the one marrying Shay.”

“Oh,” Keith replies reflexively, then stops, embarrassed. It had just been a lighthearted comment, but he feels something curl tightly behind his ribcage, like a fist around his heart. _Am I jealous?_

“What?”

“Uh. Nothing. It’s just—you said you wish you were marrying Shay.”

“Yeah...it was a joke.” Lance raises an eyebrow. “You look like I’ve just punched you in the face.”

Keith puffs out a breath. “So, Shay and not me?”

Freezing around his next bite of biscotti, Lance sputters, cheeks darkening. “I meant—I—”

“It’s fine. I’m joking, too.” Keith gives him a small smile. “Let’s go home, huh? It’s almost seven.”

“Yeah, sure. Wanna watch a movie?” Lance sticks his hand out and Keith pulls him up easily, slinging his arm around Lance’s waist for a moment. Beaming, Lance leans down to press a kiss to the side of his neck. 

“Come on, idiot,” Keith grumbles, albeit fondly. He brings Lance’s jaw up with two fingers and kisses him properly this time, tasting cinnamon and sugar. “And yeah, it’s your turn to choose.”

They’ve barely made it out onto the street when it starts to rain, heavy and humid—typical early summer. Within seconds, they’re drenched. 

“Shit!” Lance yelps, and tears himself away from Keith to sprint down the block. 

“Hey, what—” Keith pushes the hair out of his face. Lance is a blur through the water on his eyelashes, his bright red shirt polka-dotted with raindrops. 

“Let’s go!” Lance is waving frantically. “I forgot to put away the front displays!”

Keith groans, but takes off towards him.

By the time they reach In Bloom, all of the artfully arranged chrysanthemums in their wire baskets are drooping, miserable under the rain’s weight. Lance curses the sky for a bit while Keith waits impatiently, then they push the tables under the store awning and hurry inside. They leave muddy shoe prints on the shop floor, but they’re too busy trying to wriggle out of their wet clothes to bother cleaning them up.

Upstairs, Lance strips down to his underwear and towels off in the middle of the apartment. 

“Have some decency,” Keith chides, his long-buried Southern sensibilities resurfacing for a moment, but Lance just grins, and threatens to walk around in the nude for the next week. Unless, of course, Keith puts on a ridiculous pair of overalls which Lance has procured out of seemingly nowhere, and is brandishing gleefully. 

“Nina sent me them for Christmas two years ago. She sewed every stitch herself, y’know.”

“Really.” Keith takes them and holds them at arm’s length. 

“Mm-hm. Look, there’s a cute little embroidered horse on the butt. See the turtle decals on the knees? Adrian put them there. He was eleven at the time, and obsessed with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Oh, _awesome,”_ Keith deadpans as he trudges off towards the bathroom.

It’s stopped raining by now, but it’s still oppressively hot, and humid enough to make little pools of sweat in the dip of his collarbones and at the base of his throat. Keith pulls off his damp t-shirt and shorts, tugs on the overalls. They’re a little long on him, as expected, and tight around the calves, and goofy-looking, but better than nothing. He hasn’t done laundry in weeks—Lance is getting snippy about him leaving dirty clothes lying around.

“Hey,” Lance calls from the kitchen. “I bought popsicles a couple weeks ago, and totally forgot about them till now. Want one?”

“Sure.” Keith ties his hair up. Once the heat became unbearable, he’d finally given in and let Shiro cut it all the way up to his jaw. Despite his earlier misgivings, it had turned out pretty well: a bit uneven on one side, maybe, but not instantly noticeable. He glances in the mirror and makes a face at his reflection, then leaves.

He finds Lance with his bare feet propped up on their brand-new coffee table, laptop open. He’s already halfway through a bright green popsicle and brandishing a wrapped one at Keith. _“Princess Mononoke_ or _Howl’s Moving Castle?”_

“Didn’t we watch both of those last week?”

“So?” Lance looks affronted. He’s been on a Ghibli kick ever since Allura brought in a shipment of Miyazaki art books. “Nice overalls. Height of fashion.”

Keith sighs and slumps down next to him. _“Howl’s Moving Castle.”_ He unwraps the popsicle. Cherry. Not as good as blue raspberry, but it’ll do. 

Lance puts the disc in, and they settle down to watch.

It’s not even halfway over when Keith’s eyelids start to flutter, and he feels himself lurch forward out of a daze. Reflexively, Lance pulls him up by the back of his overalls. “You good?” His fingers don’t move from Keith’s shoulder, warm against his sweat-damp skin.

“Mm. Just kinda tired.” There’s a streak of red juice down his wrist, the kind of sticky that’s almost dry. While he was dozing off, he must’ve let his popsicle melt a little.

Then, as if he does it every day, Lance takes his wrist and puts it up to his mouth, licks it off in one go with his eyes still fixed to the screen. There’s nothing particularly awkward or explicit about it, but electricity crackles down Keith’s spine anyway. 

He looks at Lance, messy-haired and glowing in the wet evening light, and he suddenly sees the bigger picture in vivid color.

“Marry me.” It comes tripping out of his mouth.

Lance doesn’t even glance over at him. “No,” he replies, muffled around his third popsicle. This one is strawberry flavor, and it’s left a pinkish stain at the corners of his lips.

“No?”

This time, Lance’s eyes flit across his face. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” Keith levels his gaze.

“Because.” Lance sets his teeth on the end of the popsicle stick and drags the remaining ice off. “So many reasons. We can’t afford an actual wedding, for one.”

“We’ll just sign those papers, then. I’ll get Allura to witness.” Keith mimics him, wincing at the cold against the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t miss the way Lance’s eyes follow him, shining a little brighter than usual. 

“Well,” he replies, a touch delayed. “It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it is.” Onscreen, Howl exclaims, _Sophie, you’re beautiful!_

“Keith, we’ve only known each other for a little less than a year. We’ve only been _dating_ for like, half of that.”

Raising both eyebrows, Keith flashes him a smile. Just a little one, blossoming from the corner of his mouth. “I’m kidding.” 

“You—”

Keith lets his smile widen. 

Although he loves to poke fun at Lance, he’s barely kidding. Rationally, he knows it’s way too early to think about marriage. But sometimes when he wakes up before Lance and looks at him sprawled across the mattress, or when he watches Lance sculpting pots and arranging displays, brow furrowed in concentration, or when he throws his head back and laughs in the most magical way—Keith thinks he could spend his entire life with someone like him.

But Lance doesn’t need to know that yet. For now, it’s just fun to watch him blink in shock. 

“Oh my—” Lance sucks in a breath through his teeth, clenching his fists in mock-anger. “Oh my _god,_ I hate you so much.”

“Sorry for teasing you.” Very, very casually, Keith undoes one of the overall straps. Lance glares at him. Keith doesn’t drop the smile, just spreads his legs—a fraction, really, but that’s enough to make Lance stand up, toss his popsicle stick aside and shut the laptop with a resounding _thunk._

“So,” Keith laughs, and lies back across the couch. “Overalls are your thing, then?”

 _“God,_ Keith,” Lance mutters, crawling on top of him, and that effectively puts an end to the conversation.

____________________________________

“—eith, Keith.”

“Wh—?” Keith squints through the darkness, fear cutting through his sleep-hazy vision. 

Lance’s left leg is wrapped around his waist, the rest of him twisted abnormally: right leg bent in the air, one arm tucked under his pillow, the wrist of the other perched on top of Keith’s head, his torso almost horizontal across the mattress. He’s kicked the covers all the way to the end of the bed. 

“Lance,” Keith hisses, “it is—” he leans over to the bedside table and fumbles for his phone to check the time, _“three-thirty in the morning._ This better be import—” 

“Mm,” Lance mumbles, pressing his face deeper into the pillow. His eyelids flutter rapidly. “...you so much…”

Keith sighs heavily and flops back down. Sleep-talking. Of course.

He’s about to drift off when Lance starts muttering again. 

“I—you—a lot. Soooo much. _Je t’aime, te amo…”_ He trails off, then lets out a piercing shriek. Keith groans. Maybe in order to get a good night’s sleep he needs to fake his death, like the wife did in that movie Nyma and Pidge made him watch. She pretended her husband murdered her and then ran away and cut all her hair off and killed Neil Patrick Harris. It was a pretty good movie. Nyma said it was a feminist masterpiece.

Anyway.

“Keith. Keeeeeeith.”

It is kind of cute, though, hearing Lance say his name in his sleep. He’s soft in the bluish light coming from beneath the blinds, completely at peace. He looks young. 

He looks like he’s in love.

“Give you th' moon,” Lance mumbles, and Keith’s heart feels like it’s going to burst.

“Shut up, dummy,” he replies to the sleeping figure, and falls back asleep with his forehead pressed to the curve of Lance’s spine.

He wakes up to faint birdsong and soft, offkey humming. The tune is vaguely familiar, a little jazzy, old-fashioned. It’s cloudy outside, and the apartment is bathed in a gray hue. 

Lance is already awake. His hands are clasped around a mug of cold coffee. In the foggy light, he looks almost like a ghost. Or a dream, all hazy and faraway. As his mind clears, Keith recognizes the tune; it’s from one of Lance’s old Cole Porter records. _And though I’m not a great romancer, I know that you’re bound to answer when I propose..._

“Hi,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

Startled, Lance abruptly stops whistling. “Oh. Hey. How was your sleep?”

Keith shrugs. “Fine.”

“Mm.” Lance props his heel up on the windowsill, foot arched with a graceful carelessness he’s refined to an art. Sometimes Keith still feels small next to him, with his fumbling hands and honey-slow Texan drawl that he hates so much, that slips out when he forgets to check himself. 

It’s quiet. Lance stretches, catlike, the muscles of his back curving and flexing. Keith swings his feet over the side of the bed and uses them to drag over the cleanest-looking shirt he can find. He’s yanking it over his head when Lance says something, muffled by the rustle of fabric in Keith’s ears. 

“Huh?” Keith resurfaces, pulling his hair out of the shirt’s neck. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

“Um.” Lance is looking everywhere but at him. “Do you...like me?” 

Keith thinks he’s misheard him. “Huh?”

“I mean,” Lance says, soft, “are you sure? That you like me?”

Keith stares. 

Lance ducks his head, teeth worrying on his bottom lip. “It’s just that—I’m scared. A little bit.”

“Um,” Keith replies slowly, “why?”

“It’s stupid, really, but I dunno. I feel like maybe you’re putting me on a pedestal, and one day I’m gonna disappoint you and it’ll,” he swallows, “break your heart. And I’d rather die than hurt you like that.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say.

He’s seen Lance cry, seen him yell, seen him high out of his mind and throwing up on the sidewalk outside bars at two in the morning. He’s seen him sick and angry and hurt and jealous. Every time he starts to think Lance is too perfect, Lance almost immediately fucks up.

But Keith still loves him. Loves him better because of it, even.

Now he knows when Lance wants to be alone, when he curls up in a tight little ball under the blankets and won’t get up. When his eyes get distant and his hands get shaky. He knows when to remind Lance to take his meds, and when to make him take a break from work, and when to put his arms around him and pretend like he doesn’t know Lance is crying. 

It’s the same for him. Lance has learned to lower his voice a little, to press his fingers gently against Keith’s shoulder or neck when Keith needs grounding, to ask Keith to name five sights, five sensations, until they both can breathe normally again.

“I’m afraid that I might not love you,” Lance blurts, shutting his eyes tightly. “I really, honestly believe I do, but some ugly little part of my brain keeps telling me I’m just—making this up, or something. Like I can’t be in love with another guy, even though I know it’s okay to be. I just—”

“Hey.” Keith presses his knee to Lance’s. “Shush.”

Lance pauses. Looks up at him, his gaze sorry and sad.

“I know you love me,” Keith tells him, solemn. He presses his fingers against Lance’s bare chest, feeling the delicate beat beneath it. “You say my name in your sleep.”

“I do.” It’s more of an acceptance than a question.

Keith nods. 

Without another word, Lance pulls his hand away from his heart and kisses it, first the back, then the centre of his palm. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles against Keith’s skin. 

The sun breaks through the clouds. 

___________________________________

_one year later_

When Keith pulls up to the curb, Lance is waiting for him on the front stoop, a misshapen chain of flowers circling his head.

“Hey,” he calls. “Sweet ride.”

“That joke never gets old, honey,” Keith deadpans, opening the cherry-red door and stepping out. "Sweet headdress.”

Lance grins. “Bunch of teenage girls came in. They all wanted to take selfies with me, and I said they’d have to make me a flower crown in exchange. Our demographic has changed _so_ much.”

Earlier that year, In Bloom had been used as the setting for a successful romance movie, and Lance had had a bit-part in it, which did wonders for business. Keith would often come home to a crowd of tourists standing on the sidewalk, gazing openmouthed at the storefront, their cameras poised and ready. Everything had changed so quickly; Hunk and Shay getting married, Pidge graduating top of her class, Coran and Allura fucking _vanishing_ for three months and leaving Hunk in charge (they had gone to visit relatives, it turns out, but there had been a long period of sheer panic amongst Open Book employees), Nyma opening her own bike shop, Pidge and Ava breaking up after the ugliest fight Keith has ever witnessed even in his years as a teen delinquent...Although Shiro and Matt were _still_ dancing around each other, so much that it drove everyone crazy. Okay, some things never changed. 

“Cute.” Keith locks the car, then heads over to him. “How was your day otherwise?”

“Not bad. Better, now that you’re here.” Lance wraps an arm around his waist and pulls himself up. “Kiss me, you fool.” 

Keith does, a quick peck on the cheek. Frowning, Lance leans away and points wordlessly at his mouth. 

“You have dirt on your lips,” Keith lies, teasing. “No way.”

“Yes way.” Lance leans against the doorframe, blocking Keith from entering. “Pucker up, Kogane.”

“Watch me, _McClain-Santana,”_ he replies, tilting his chin up, and kisses Lance so soundly that his own knees go weak. When they come up for air, Lance’s eyes are sparkling. He looks like he’s about to jump Keith right then and there, and Keith would almost let him if it weren’t for the velvet box tucked away in the pocket of his trousers. Instead, he diffuses the tension by awkwardly wriggling out of his jacket.

“I hate wearing this,” he groans, pulling the collar of his button-down away from his throat. “Who even came up with the idea that you have to wear suits to work? Especially in _June?”_

Lance tugs gently on his tie. “Aw, but you look so good in it. So professional.”

“Mm. I’m sure.” Keith knows he does, though: when he first booked a job interview, Allura immediately drove him to the mall and made him buy so many blazers and collared shirts that his head spun. Her fashion expertise, he’d tell everyone later, was probably the only reason he got hired at such a prestigious company. Although the haircut did help. The mullet is long gone, much to Lance’s relief. “Or are you just saying that ‘cause you’re my husband?”

“Your _husband?”_ Lance squeaks. 

Keith slaps a hand over his mouth. “I, uh—”

Lance’s eyes are huge. 

“Slip of the tongue,” Keith blurts. “I meant boyfriend, obviously.” He darts inside the shop, cheeks burning. He really, _really_ can’t mess this up. Nyma's planning on proposing to Allura soon, and if it goes better than his does, she’ll _never_ let him live it down. 

His phone buzzes, startling him out of his thoughts. Four unread messages. 

**pidgeon:** _DID YOU DO IT YET_  
**shir-bro:** _good luck!!! :)_  
**nymaaaahhh:** _Me n allura r sending good vibes!_

Hunk had sent a string of heart emojis. Anxiety forms a lump in Keith’s throat. He turns his phone off with trembling fingers.

Lance is talking somewhere behind him, but the words don’t even register. Keith screws his eyes shut and sucks in a breath. _Better now than never._

He turns and faces Lance, who’s framed by ferns and lilies, leaning down to examine a planter full of zinnias. There’s sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating him from behind, and he’s unfairly radiant even in a dirt-smeared apron. Keith feels all soft and open just looking at him, like Lance could dip a hand right through his ribs and pluck out his stupid gooey heart. 

He drops to one knee, smacking his heel against a ceramic birdbath. Lance snaps out of his zinnia reverie and stares at him. “What, did you trip ov— _oh.”_

Keith opens the box. He'd spent hours agonizing over what it would look like, but finally settled on a plain silver band with a tiny ruby for the gemstone. A pretty little flame.

“Lance McClain-Santana,” he rasps, then swallows, hard. “I’m not good with words. I was going to write you a poem but I figured you would break up with me on the spot.”

 _“God,_ Keith,” Lance blurts, blinking in the way people do when they’re trying desperately not to cry. He looks dizzy. 

“So,” Keith soldiers on, “I just wanted to say that I love you. More than I can put into words. Would you do me the honor of—”

“Fuck,” Lance says abruptly. Taken aback, Keith shuts his mouth and stares at him. “This is so—” Running a hand through his hair, Lance scowls. “I’m dumb. I don’t—” 

“Oh,” Keith lets out, the tiniest sound. His heart quivers, then collapses. “Okay. S-sorry.” Now _he’s_ doing the blinking, and his throat is closing up and his palms are sweating and his whole chest is tight and he needs to leave, now now now— 

For some reason, Lance is kneeling, too.

And he’s pulling a near-identical box out of his apron pocket. 

The gears in Keith’s brain click into place. _“Oh,”_ he breathes again. “Oh, Jesus—”

“Sorry for interrupting your proposal,” Lance says gently. He’s crying for real now, tears spattering the legs of his jeans and the floor beneath him. “I’ve been freaking out over this for, like, two weeks. I almost chickened out. But now I know that I can do this.” He opens the box. 

His ring is also silver, but with a few tiny leaves carved into the band. In the center rests a small blue-green stone in the shape of a rose. 

“Blue roses,” Keith laughs, recalling their disastrous first meeting. 

Lance isn’t laughing along with him, though. His gaze is soft and solemn. “I did actually find a poem. And memorized it. _Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem.”_ He clears his throat. 

_“My left hand will live longer than my right,”_ Lance begins, and as he speaks, the world goes silent. _“I think praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think staying up and waiting for paintings to sigh is science.”_

The lilt of Lance’s voice, rising and falling, is wavelike. Calm. Keith has always adored the way he talks, like he’s putting love into every single syllable. 

_“I like the idea of different theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass, a Bronx where people talk like violets smell...Here I have two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back to rest my cheek against, your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.”_

Sunlight hits the gems on each ring and reflects the colors around the shop, fiery red and sweet blue. It’s so ridiculously cinematic, Keith wants to laugh. Or cry, or kiss Lance. All three are likely in the next few minutes. 

_“Here when I say ‘I never want to be without you,’ somewhere else I am saying ‘I never want to be without you again.’ And when I touch you in each of the places we meet in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying and resurrected. When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,”_ Lance concludes, the last few words catching in his throat, _“in each place and forever.”_ He wipes at his eyes. 

“God, this is so corny. Sorry. I love you, though.” He steadies himself, then meets Keith’s eyes. “I love you so much it scares me, a little. You make me nervous, but you also make me calm.” Pressing one hand to his chest, Lance takes a deep breath. “Keith Kogane, will you marry me?” 

“Not unless you marry me,” Keith answers, and Lance is already lunging forward, flinging his arms around Keith’s neck and kissing him, and it’s _everything,_ and for a moment Keith forgets every single worry he’s ever had because _this_ is really all that matters, now.

They slide the rings on each other’s fingers: it’s more difficult than expected since they’re both shaking with relief and crying so hard they can barely see.

“How did we manage to buy two rings?” Lance holds his up to the light, letting it catch on the ruby again. “Aren’t we starving artists? Or at least, I am.” 

“I got a couple donations.” Keith grins. “But we can only keep it on one condition: Allura gets to plan our wedding.”

Lance grins back. “My last name is gonna be one hell of a mouthful now. Could we make an acronym out of it?”

“I love you,” Keith replies, and kisses him again, kneeling there on the floorboards of the flower shop.

“Love you, too,” Lance murmurs, a little muffled against the corner of Keith’s mouth. 

His words are a promise.

___________________________________

_We were barely eighteen when we crossed collective hearts;_  
_It was cold, but it got warm when you barely crossed my eye._  
_And then you turned, put out your hand, and you asked me to dance_  
_I knew nothing of romance, but it was love at second sight._

_I swear when I grow up I won't just buy you a rose,_  
_I will buy the flower shop, and you will never be lonely._  
_For even if the sun stops waking up over the fields,_  
_I will not leave, I will not leave 'til it's our time._  
_So just take my hand, you know that I will never leave your side._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from _dedicated to the one i love_ by the mamas  & the papas.  
> full text of the poem lance recites is [ here. ](http://www.pa56.org/ross/hicok.htm)
> 
> OH MY GOD
> 
> I DID IT
> 
> WE DID IT!!!!!
> 
> thank you guys so so much for reading this fic...i never expected it to become so popular but i'm so grateful!!! y'all are GEMS! hope u enjoyed this epilogue!! 
> 
> also sorry for taking so long...i just finished high school n i've got a job now so i've been really busy for the past little while...anyways thanks again for supporting my gay ass! keep ur eyes peeled for future fics because i have tons of ideas! if any of u have made art or playlists or even written things for this fic _please_ let me know, i'd Love to see em!
> 
> (a bit of self-promo: i just republished an old fic of mine that yall might remember if you've been here long enough: [ how to not keep a diary ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11003595) so please check it out! it's a klance university au in diary format! it's a huge shitpost i love it)
> 
>  **edit 24/08/17:** check out this [ incredible art of lance](https://emoqueee.tumblr.com/post/164449070533/blue-salvia-for-think-of-me-yellow-jonquils-for) by emoqueee!


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